


Thomas Barrow and the Power of Friendship

by chiaroscure



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Developing Friendships, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Male-Female Friendship, Missing Scene, Multi, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiaroscure/pseuds/chiaroscure
Summary: A series of moments inspecting Thomas's relationships with a number of characters. Ranges from pre- to post-canon and many points in between, excluding the film.1) Sarah O'Brien2) Daisy Mason, née Robinson3) Sybil Crawley and Edward Courtenay (and Tom Branson)4) Jimmy Kent5) Phyllis Baxter6) Lady Mary Crawley (and George)7) Elsie Hughes8) Andy Parker
Relationships: Thomas Barrow & Andy Parker, Thomas Barrow & Daisy Mason, Thomas Barrow & Edward Courtenay, Thomas Barrow & Elsie Hughes, Thomas Barrow & Jimmy Kent, Thomas Barrow & Mary Crawley, Thomas Barrow & Phyllis Baxter, Thomas Barrow & Sarah O'Brien, Thomas Barrow & Sybil Crawley, Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Comments: 79
Kudos: 180





	1. Sarah O'Brien

**Author's Note:**

> I am so late to the Downton Abbey party, but now that I'm here I'm all in! This started as a short character study but it has spiraled into a larger character study - whoops ;)

Thomas can tell Miss O’Brien has been watching him. That’s alright; he has been watching her too. Good idea to watch people who watch you, he is given to understand. Thomas has been at Downton Abbey for just over two weeks now and has the lay of the land, more or less, although he’s still not sure what to do with the one lady’s maid the house employs.

He does, evidently, know how to navigate the dynamic between the butler, Mr Carson, and first footman, Christopher. Mr Carson does not appreciate lackadaisical work, and Christopher coasts by on pompous charm and the words ‘good enough.’ So when Mr Carson asked Thomas (junior footman, supposedly under Christopher’s guidance) if he thinks the silver he’s meant to be polishing looks clean to him, it was all too easy for Thomas to report that, no, not especially, Mr Carson, but Christopher said he’d rather it was done quickly than well, and I thought he must know best, sir. It wasn’t much, but it made the butler glower at Christopher and inform Thomas that his instincts were correct in front of a number of the other staff. Enough of such innocent moments would build up, Thomas knows; he just has to keep sharp.

That was fifteen minutes ago, and now Thomas is in the courtyard smoking in silence with Miss O’Brien who is, as usual, watching him. With somewhat more interest than she has previously.

“He got what was coming to him,” she tells the overcast sky.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Thomas exhales smoke smoothly, watching her. She tosses him an amused frown before falling into silence again for some minutes. Thomas inspects his nails.

“Maybe there really is some importance in being earnest,” Miss O’Brien says under her breath, seemingly half distracted by a pebble that was inconveniently under her heel. Her diverted attention gives Thomas the opportunity to steal a longer glance at her than he ordinarily might.

“I read that play my last year of school,” he decides to tell her. He gives her ladyship’s maid the same chance to assess him she just gave him by fixing some non-existent issue with his sleeve.

“Wouldn’t think they’d give you that to read in school.”

“Didn’t say they did. Just said that was when I read it.”

“Have you read much else by Oscar Wilde?” she inquires like it’s nothing.

“Not really.” He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “One of his stories. It was alright.”

He feels rather than sees O’Brien’s terse smile.

“You’ll not have trouble finding copies of the rest around here if you look. Funny place to read it, though, this house. Not much chance of us eating muffins on the lawn, I daresay.”

He turns to look at her, expression pointedly neutral. “Are you a fan of Mr Wilde, Miss O’Brien?”

“Of course.”

He quirks an eyebrow and breathes smoke out through his nose. “Many of those in this house, are there?”

“Not in this house, no.”

“Mm.”

He takes another long drag on the cigarette to give himself an excuse to look away from her. He had reason to expect that there might be at least some fans of Wilde, so to speak, present in a staff as large as the one at Downton, so what she says is a bit of a disappointment, but, given his impressions of the people here, not really a surprise. Still, heartening to know where he stands with Miss O’Brien on the topic now, though it will take some further investigation to determine how one ought to understand a woman with her taste in literature. He finds the neutrality of his posture to be less deliberate now that it seems this short exchange is going well.

“Lord and Lady Grantham host plenty of guests, though,” Miss O’Brien continues after a long pause. “Plenty of well-traveled, well-read guests, even if most of them have their heads too far up their own arses to be worth a bother.”

Thomas snorts. “Just as well. When was the last time anything good came of working under anyone observant?”

The corners of O’Brien’s mouth tighten, her eyes brighter than Thomas can remember seeing them. There are friendlier people to like among the staff at Downton, but, in his experience, ‘friendly’ does not always mean ‘interesting,’ ‘clever,’ or ‘useful.’ He drops his finished cigarette and grinds it out with his shoe, but does not move to go back indoors.

“I wonder if you’d do me a favor, Thomas.”

Well. Perhaps he made up his mind about being comfortable in this conversation too quickly. Being asked for favors is not usually promising after veiled-but-delicate discussions. Miss O’Brien offers him one of her cigarettes, which he accepts along with a light despite his returning reservations.

“Some things that I sent for for Lady Grantham arrived this morning,” O’Brien proceeds, “and they need to be taken up to her rooms before the evening. It’ll take two or three trips if it’s just me, but it’ll be no trouble for you to take part of it if you come along with me, strong lad like you. Lady Grantham likes to gossip in the afternoon—mostly pointless stuff, but it can be informative, if you know what you’re listening for. I doubt she’d pay much mind if you took your time in the hallway on your way out, so long as you’re quiet; the door isn’t as thick as you might think.”

Thomas finds himself torn between uncertainty that he might not be understanding the hint correctly and delight that he probably is. He doesn’t know what sort of informative gossip Lady Grantham is likely to bring up, but he wouldn’t mind finding out, if her maid thinks it worth his while.

Miss O’Brien raises her eyebrows at him, expression a cross between impatience and indifference, and he hides his smile by putting his fresh cigarette between his lips.

“Yes, I believe I could help you with that, Miss O’Brien.”

She seems pleased, in her understated way. “Do you like reading?”

He blinks, but shrugs. “Suppose so, yeah.”

“Lord Grantham doesn’t mind letting those of us who are careful about things borrow books from the library sometimes. It’s good to have something to do outside of your work, and you’re careful enough that you’ll be looking to be first footman one day, I expect.”

Thomas smirks, watching the clouds moving overhead. “Only if it’s out of the question to skip that appointment altogether on my way up.”

Miss O’Brien nods and stamps her own cigarette out. “Asking for a book or two would be a tidy way to show you’re reliable while taking advantage of what’s here that you’d not get working in shops.”

She gives him a meaningful look before turning to go back inside. Thoughtfully, he watches her go. In his short time at Downton, no one has made too much effort to speak personally with him. He has had too many conversations about where he was from (which he prefers to keep short and vague) and what he did before coming here (a fine but boring topic), and he has been invited on a few walks into the village, but there are no real connections established or forthcoming. Always difficult to tell if it is just that he does not have much in common with his colleagues, if they consider his less-than-open demeanor not worth the trouble of getting past, or if they can sense that he does not want to stay at their level for long. But never mind: Thomas is used to people not liking him. No skin off his nose; he has not gotten into this line of work to make friends with nobodies, anyway.

Miss O’Brien seems actually to have paid attention to him, though, and if anything seems to be encouraging of his ambition. Just proves that personal similarities mattered more than warmth did. Thomas could do with someone to show him the ropes here anyway; despite Christopher’s laziness he’ll get trained up well enough, but there is more to becoming valet or butler than doing what he’s told. Miss O’Brien seems willing and able to help him find the shortcuts.

And to offer hints on how not to lose his mind here in the long run, even. Good tip about Lord Grantham’s library, he thinks, and gossip about one’s employers is always more fun if one can share it. Nice of her to give him a cigarette as well.

He is right to have waited it out for someone worth his time, rather than throwing his lot in with the kitchen staff or his fellow footmen. He doesn’t need a friend, of course, but O’Brien seems clever, and a lady’s maid isn’t a bad person to know.

The door slams open, startling him out of his contemplation.

“Thomas?” Mr Carson calls to him sharply. “I said you might have a _short_ break, not the afternoon off! Kindly get back to your duties before you put Paul behind as well.”

“Yes, Mr Carson,” Thomas says, tossing down his half-finished cigarette and hurrying inside after the butler. He does not appreciate how Mr Carson addresses him like a naughty child, but in this one instance he is right; Thomas had better get on with his tasks if he is going to accompany Miss O’Brien upstairs later.

*

“Exciting about the Duke coming to visit, isn’t it, Thomas?”

Daisy whirls around to beam up at him from across the counter. Thomas hesitates, a bit of the pudding she’s been cutting halfway to his mouth, but she makes no indication that she intends to stop him, so he carries on.

“S’pose so,” he shrugs. “If you think everyone running about like chickens that’ve had their heads cut off is exciting.”

“I’ve never seen a Duke,” Daisy sighs, ignoring what he just said.

“And you’ll not while he’s here if you’re doing your work right,” O’Brien tuts, slinking into the kitchen behind Thomas. Daisy’s face falls and she turns away, displeased, as Thomas moves to make space for O’Brien. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. “I’ve got a present for you.”

Thomas quirks an eyebrow. O’Brien makes no move to give it to him. “Well?”

“Don’t get short with me or I might just change my mind,” she reprimands him, then jerks her head at the door. “Fancy a smoke?”

Thomas follows without complaint, Daisy not bothering to turn as they go. Once in the courtyard, O’Brien takes out her cigarettes wordlessly, lights his, then her own, and takes a long drag.

“ _Well?_ ” Thomas prompts her. She purses her lips.

“Might not give it to you now, if you’re going to behave like a greedy little boy. Maybe you don’t deserve it.”

Thomas rolls his eyes but shuts up, focusing on his own cigarette until O’Brien sorts herself out.

“Got a book for you,” she says after a minute or two of silence.

Thomas looks at her, but keeps his mouth shut. She produces a slim volume from her skirt pocket and hands it to him. He flips it open to find out what it’s called, seeing no title on the cover: _De Profundis._ It’s a shoddily made little thing, not very professionally put together at all, but he recognizes the name of the writer all too well.

“This is not much, is it,” he sneers, Oscar Wilde’s name glaring on the cheap paper of the page as Thomas looks back at it to avoid O’Brien’s eye.

“Letters and poems, different from the usual light prattle. Thought you’d like it.”

“Blimey, you are a fan of his.”

“You’d do well to like it,” she informs him smoothly. “Thought I’d get you a parting gift, in case you’re as clever as you say you are and get yourself whisked away into the lap of luxury anytime soon.”

Thomas looks at his feet in a poor attempt to hide his grin. “Thanks, then. You never know what might happen.”

“You never do,” she agrees. She shoots him a smile, a rare sparkle of sincerity—even fondness—in her eyes as Thomas continues to be unable to keep a straight face.

He forgets about the book until a few days later, when he finds it where he left it on the top of his dresser. Half-drunk bottle of stolen wine in one hand, he picks up the book and throws it unceremoniously in the drawer where his own collection of letters _used_ to be. He slams the drawer shut, feeling like he needs a thorough scrub down despite his careful grooming, and takes another gulp of the wine.

*

_Sincerely,_

_O’Brien_

He didn’t think anyone would write. She said she would, but she is not really a woman of her word. But she did: it’s a short letter, just little updates about Downton, a cursory question about the goings on at the front. It is not the sort of letter soldiers tuck into their breast pockets, but Thomas hasn’t got a mother or sweetheart to write him, so into his pocket O’Brien’s missive goes. Every time he hears it crinkle in the rare moments of quiet, he feels a little better, even though he knows she would laugh at his sentimentality if she knew.

_Faithfully,_

_O’Brien_

He doesn’t write in any great detail. No one does. Everybody back home knows it’s awful; putting words to the horror won’t help anyone. Honestly, he’s just glad to have a reason to put pen to paper. There is a camaraderie between him and his fellow soldiers that he has rarely experienced before, but the cost is high for the bonds that form in the trenches. He’s glad to remember that other people exist. Another person exists. Another person far away who thought about him long enough of her own accord to write to him, twice.

_With anticipation,_

_Sarah O’Brien_

The tone of her letters is always subtle, like her, but he does not miss the use of her first name in her signature. She thinks he is due to be coming back soon on leave; he’s known her long enough to catch the hopefulness in her writing. He scribbles a response the minute he finishes reading it; there is not a lot happening at this very moment, and he’s not sure when ( _if_ ) he will get a chance to respond later. He can tell his hand is unsteady, but there is not much he can do about that.

_Try to get back in one piece, Thomas. Downton has changed without you. Best of luck,_

_Sarah_

The night is quiet as he fumbles for his lighter. Her last letter crinkles in his pocket. He knows this isn’t what she meant, but she’ll never have to know. No one will.

He raises the lighter in his trembling fingers and closes his eyes.

*

Daisy and William’s wedding is springflower-lined and somber. O’Brien is pale as they all file out of the room afterwards, downcast and tight-jawed. Thomas almost hugs her then, when it’s just the two of them alone in the hallway. He pauses for a half step, but he worries that if he does he’ll crack, so he carries on his way, and so does she. Neither of them seems able to meet the other’s gaze for the rest of the day.

*

He thinks about burning the Wilde book she gave him years ago when he’s sure he’s one wrong move from being put behind bars. Surely it’s a damning possession, if anyone were to search his things. He can’t stand the sight of it; he hates it that O’Brien would have given it to him in an underhanded gesture of protection, only years later for her to become the reason he needs protecting. He wants to burn it because he knows what it says without ever reading it, because he hates that anyone had to write it in the first place, that anyone would know him well enough to think he would need it, that he’s so frustrated with no way to fix what he did so he might as well burn the bloody book that does nothing but sit there and remind him of everything making him feel so helpless.

But he doesn’t burn it. He throws it across the room, but he doesn’t burn it. Instead, he picks it up, and, finally, he reads it. 

*

It’s strange when O’Brien goes. She gave no open indication that she was planning anything, to him or anyone. Thomas wants to be surprised she would leave Lady Grantham high and dry like that; O’Brien has never liked her, exactly, but ever since the soap incident, she has been more loyal to her. But then, O’Brien’s loyalty is a feeble thing.

He sits outside and smokes cigarette after cigarette, taking his time with them, in some ways glad that he will not have to go through the ordeal of ignoring her if she comes out too. It was awkward, pretending they were friends, with the bitter, furious loss hanging heavy between them.

Then again, they weren’t proper friends. Not really. Just…accomplices. He can see that now.

It shouldn’t feel like a loss that she’s gone away. He’s won, hasn’t he? A precarious, embarrassing, unhappy victory is still a victory, after all. And now his opponent has slunk away to bigger and better things far away so he won’t have to stomach her anymore. It’s a relief, but a disappointing one.

The staff pitied him, mostly, for what O’Brien did to him a year and a half ago. It’s nice to know everyone thought what she instigated was too much. It’s nice to know everyone agreed that his word could be trusted, at least when it helped them to mistrust O’Brien more than they already did. Pity is better than not-pity, in a situation like this has been, but it’s not companionable pity, just…pitiful pity, infused liberally with disgust. The way a person might feel about a dead rat on the side of the road.

Things were never going to be right with O’Brien even before she started aiming to kill, but that doesn’t really help. She’d been his ally since he first started here ten years ago, the one person he could always smoke, scheme, and laugh with. Who does he have now?

That’s a stupid question and he knows it as soon as he thinks it. Things have changed for the worse but also for the better in the last year, and he’s not so alone as he was after everything settled down. No one’s forgotten, but it’s had time to settle, and he and Jimmy are getting on better than he could have hoped. Jimmy’s better than O’Brien ever was. More of a proper friend.

Thomas is still aware, though, that friendliness is not a guarantee of helpfulness in the way O’Brien used to be helpful. Jimmy’s a good lad, very charming, and attentive in his own ways, but he’s not shrewd despite the mean streak Thomas knows he has. Jimmy doesn’t notice things that need to be noticed if one lives one’s life through well-planned maneuvering, as Thomas does.

He’ll have to be careful with himself, he supposes. He was promoted, but he can sense the fragility of the new position every time he does anything. O’Brien was the one who was out to get him, but the good will shown to him by the people who saved his neck was single-use and came from a sense of justice rather than of liking. He wishes he had a better idea of what was going on around him; these couple of years without O’Brien in his camp have made him feel oddly blind to what is going on in the house. Now he has only his own observations to rely on. He has to keep a keener watch out, guard his back more. He’s managing, but it would be easier with another pair of eyes to catch the things he misses so he’ll know where he stands. 

He puts out his last cigarette of the night and stands alone in the quiet darkness for a few seconds. Everyone will have gone to bed by now; he’ll have to lock up and put out the lights when he goes in. He mentally rehearses the steps he’ll take on his way through the basement, stairs, and attic corridor. He sighs, and makes for the door, realizing how tired he is. He wonders dully who the new lady’s maid will be; how likely it is that she will be anything like O’Brien.

The new maid has already been hired by the time Thomas receives unexpected news about a person he hasn’t thought about in years. Just the same, he knows Edna won’t last long – and even if she does; he is certain the nanny won’t. He starts setting the pieces up, several moves ahead of everyone else, as he always prefers to be. The letter goes out. He’ll wait for the reply, which won’t take long to come. When the time is right, he’ll mention his old friend to Lady Grantham, and when sooner or later she joins the household, Thomas will have someone attentive in his camp again, whether Phyllis Baxter likes it or not.


	2. Daisy Mason, née Robinson

“My, this is a busy week! You’re the second newcomer since Monday,” a small blonde maid, soon introduced as Anna, tells Thomas warmly on his first day. “Daisy is the other. Welcome to Downton.”

She excuses herself and hurries off in anticipation of the bells ringing. The first footman swings by casually to inform Thomas that they will not be needed until breakfast is served, which is a few minutes out yet, but he would do well to go to the kitchen so he can be ready to help carry things up when they are, so that is where Thomas goes.

The kitchen is a flurry of steam, scent, and ununiformed maids. Most of them are too preoccupied being harangued by the cook, who looks ready to hit the lot of them with whatever is handy, to pay him much mind, but a few pause their bustle to give him an appreciative once-over.

Thomas ignores most of the human activity in favor of trying to guess which items he will need to take up. He is not going to be serving at lunch and dinner yet, as a junior footman, but he can carry dishes for the breakfast service until he is deemed fit to hold platters of food for other people to eat. The delicious smell of frying ham is distracting, but Thomas is following well enough to expect the cut fruit will be sent up first, followed perhaps by the sausage—until a girl all but crashes into him.

“Sorry!” she exclaims, obviously mortified as she stares up at him with huge blue eyes. He shrugs; no harm done. But that only seems to fluster her more. A red blush stains her already pinkened face though she doesn’t seem able to look away or even say anything more.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he says to try to prompt her to carry on with whatever she was doing. “It’s me first day; should I not stand here?”

Her eyes widen even more, somehow. “No! I mean, yes, you’re—that is, I don’t think I know?”

She is beginning to look physically pained by the interaction, still rooted to the place she had stopped walking. Thomas waits a moment for her to get a hold of herself, but she doesn’t, so he decides he might as well introduce himself.

“I’m Thomas.”

The girl nods, still stricken.

“Nice to…I’m Daisy,” she manages to squeak out.

“Daisy,” he repeats, recognizing the name. “So you’re the other one that’s new, then. She…well, someone told me you started this week too. How is it?”

The girl opens her mouth to reply, but the cook has turned her attention to them and hits the counter loudly with her wooden spoon.

“Daisy! Stop making eyes at the footmen and get a move on; the batter’s separating!”

Daisy makes a frightened apology and scurries away from him to the bowl that Thomas can only assume holds partially separated batter. The cook spares him a glare without much conviction behind it before continuing to stir up the morning flurry. It’s not a minute before a metal dish (he was right; it is cut fruit first) is shoved into his hands and he is hurried up the stairs to get his first look at the other half of Downton Abbey.

*

Daisy’s a funny one, Thomas thinks for probably the hundredth time as she steers him toward through the kitchen. He would swear she was afraid of him (in a blushing, lip-biting sort of way) for how she clams up when he stands close to her, but then, sometimes, like right now, she seems to forget all her inhibitions and manhandles him to her whims.

“It’s that one up there. Please, Betsy’s taken the stepladder and Mrs Patmore doesn’t want me climbing on stools anymore,” she pleads, parking him in front of the cabinet. She points at a large ceramic mixing bowl, other hand still bunched in his livery as if to ensure he can’t run away.

“This is chipped,” he comments, taking the bowl off the shelf. Daisy reaches for it expectantly, attempting to tug him down to her level by the back of his jacket.

“I know it is; that’s why it’s up there, isn’t it! But the others are being used or are proper broken, so it’s this or nothing!”

He frowns, but lowers the bowl for her to snatch away. She thumps it down immediately on the counter and begins tossing flour into it. Thomas steps back, not eager to get white dust on his black clothes. Daisy looks up at him from under her brows with a grin that makes her appear oddly goblin-like just as Mrs Patmore enters the room and Thomas turns to leave.

“Thank you, Thomas!” Daisy calls after him, voice practically chiming. He meets Mrs Patmore’s skeptical glance with a smirk. He sees the cook roll her eyes and hears Daisy give a tittering laugh before he rounds the corner to the staircase, to be met with Mr Carson derisively demanding to know where on Earth he has been.

*

Sometimes, Thomas thinks people in this house see far more than they should. More often, he cannot believe they miss things that seem so glaringly obvious to him. And they miss nothing more than affairs to do with Daisy Robinson.

Daisy does not want to marry William Mason. Thomas knows it, O’Brien knows it, and Daisy very decidedly knows it, but nobody else seems able to get it through their heads that Daisy _does not want to marry him_. She keeps telling Mrs Patmore in no uncertain terms that it makes her uncomfortable, but Mrs Patmore can’t hear it. Nobody can hear it—except, evidently, for the two people downstairs who are the least likely to care about a silly little kitchen maid’s silly little feelings.

She probably should marry him, Thomas muses apathetically, leaning against the doorframe smoking his cigarette in his army greens. William will be dead in a few hours, what could it possibly matter? A few little words, a little kiss, and that’s it—she’ll make the tragic hero happy, get herself a new name, and claim her war widow’s pension. Hell, in another world, even Thomas would marry William for that kind of tidy set up, and Thomas doesn’t even _like_ William. At least Daisy does, whether she’s _in love_ with him or no.

It is very easy to say someone else should marry because it would be tidy, but it is, of course, much harder actually to do it oneself. Thomas immediately gives his head a sharp shake to rid himself of the thought.

Daisy’s gaze flicks up to him on her way past, a just flinch of a glance, her eyes round and her brow knit. Thomas opens his mouth, but Daisy’s already hurrying away, preoccupied with things more important than whatever he was about to say, so he exhales a cloud of smoke to veil his face and leaves it at that. He doesn’t know what he was going to say anyway. Probably something unhelpful.

Everyone would prefer it if it were him up there dying in that bed, in all likelihood. But then, he never would have done what William did. That’s why he’s down here, safe and sound with only a blighty to show for his service, while William is going to be cold in the ground come this time tomorrow. If Thomas were the sort of man to have done what William had, maybe Thomas himself would marry Daisy on his own deathbed so she could claim his widow’s benefits without any need for her to worry that she was leading him on. That would be a nice thing to do, wouldn’t it? A very nice thing indeed.

“Oi, what do you think you’re doing with that?” Thomas snaps at a hall boy who is trying to lift a poorly loaded tray a thirteen-year-old has no business carrying in the first place. The boy looks up at him, confused, then stricken. Thomas puts out his cigarette and stalks irritably over. “Give me that. Are they not bothering to train you lot these days? Ridiculous.”

*

He hears through the grape vine that Daisy got Alfred to catch Jimmy and Ivy kissing in the boot room. It’s all very childish, these endless upsets between the four of them, but Thomas keeps his mouth shut about it. Whatever they do to each other is really none of his business as long as they get their work done. He should probably feel badly for Alfred, who has made it very clear already that he doesn’t enjoy walking into private moments unexpectedly, and who surely isn’t pleased to know what the girl he’s sweet on gets up to when he isn’t around, but Thomas can’t stir up much sympathy. He does his best not to think it’s funny, but he finds that his best really isn’t very good.

He does feel just a touch badly for Ivy, though. He doesn’t care much about Ivy either way, but he knows she likes Jimmy more than Jimmy likes her, and it’s too bad she’s being put through all these dramatics for something that isn’t going to go her way regardless. Thomas is a bit more conscientious about what he does with his teacup that afternoon, and a bit stricter about making sure Jimmy and Alfred get the food out on time instead of lingering uncomfortably in the kitchen that night. Ivy probably doesn’t notice the symbolic hat tip from the under-butler (she doesn’t care much about him either way either), but he hopes it makes her evening slightly easier.

He ought to be cross with Daisy, he supposes. He is a person in authority, after all; it’s his _job_ to be cross with her: she caused trouble in the ranks; she ought to know to keep her spite to herself.

But…well, Thomas knows Daisy made the bread tonight, and he knows it’s just a simple loaf like the ones they always have, but he’ll be damned if he isn’t going to loudly declare it the best bread he’s had in years when he’s sure she can hear him. Daisy scurries off, face down and ears pink, grinning into her collar. Thomas allows himself a haughty glance down the table at the footmen who, he shouldn’t be quite so pleased to see, are both scowling into their bowls. 

*

“Am I too old for him, do you think?”

Thomas looks up irritably from the crossword he’s been sat here staring at for the last fifteen minutes. He expects to find Mrs Patmore or someone in the room for Daisy to be addressing, but it’s just the two of them. She edges closer, and sits one chair down from him across the table.

“Who?” Thomas says, after what is probably much too long a pause.

“ _Andy_ ,” Daisy prompts, a little impatiently. “He’s _years_ younger than I am—I don’t know; isn’t that strange? It’s not ordinary, is it.”

He sneers. “I’d been wondering if I should say something. Proper cradle-snatching you’re doing.”

She looks annoyed, but she doesn’t move. Thomas still finds himself speaking to Daisy with his old tones and expressions—more so than with anyone else. She’s used to it; she gets skittish when he’s too soft. He finds he appreciates that from her. Perhaps his sarcasm gives her room to be abrupt with him too without the need to feel guilty.

“How old _is_ Andy?” he asks, realizing he has no idea.

“Twenty-four,” Daisy replies quickly. Almost angrily. Thomas reflects on that for a moment, cracking his knuckles to have something to do with his restless fingers.

“How old are you?”

Daisy frowns. “ _Thirty-one_.”

That seems about right, now he thinks of it. Daisy has managed not to age to his mind since he met her, though of course he can see the changes in her in the years since they started at Downton.

“That’s not much difference,” he says. Daisy’s already wide eyes widen more for a second.

“Seven years is a lot for me to be older than him, though!”

“Don’t be rude; that’s not so much—I’m only five years older than you, aren’t I?”

Daisy opens her mouth to retort, but stops, expression turning inquisitive. “You are, aren’t you. You seem older than that.”

“Thanks,” Thomas grimaces indignantly. “I’ve got things to do.”

He goes to get up, but Daisy reaches across the table to grab his sleeve. Perhaps for the same reason he still speaks to her like he used to, he’s willing to let her treat him the way she used to when he was still a junior footman, even now he’s butler. He sits back down.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “It’s just that you act different now. More responsible, or something. You didn’t used to seem so much older than me—I’m not saying it to be rude, mind, I just hadn’t thought about it for a while.”

Thomas doesn’t quite know how to respond to that, can’t quite decide if it’s a surprise to hear this from her. Daisy settles down in her chair, seemingly confident he isn’t going to leave.

“You keep sitting in the rocker and saying things about the ways that you’re changing now in your old age,” she muses. “It’s just funny, is all. Convinced me you’re ten years older at least than you are, even though I know very well you’re not.”

Thomas takes a deep breath to steady his thoughts, and Daisy looks up at him from the spot she’s been half-staring at on the table.

“I suppose it’s not an accident you get that impression,” he says. “And I do feel a bit…well.”

“Old?”

He glares at her without much conviction. “Yes.”

“Why, though? There aren’t age requirements to be a butler; there’s no need to pretend.”

Thomas shakes his head. “I had a bit of a shock about not being twenty anymore a few years ago, I guess. Might have overshot, trying to catch up with myself.”

“What happened?”

Her gaze is intent. He gets the distinct feeling that no one has ever bothered to tell Daisy much about him—perhaps Mrs Patmore feels about her similarly to how he does, that she has somehow not aged in all the years she’s worked here. But she looks like she suspects _something_ beyond whatever she does know.

He thinks carefully as much about what really did happen as about how to phrase his explanation.

“When you’re twenty you can get away with being stupid,” he says slowly. “You’re either a sort of prize or a silly misguided thing to people who might be interested, so you can afford to be…bold.”

“If you look like _you_ do, anyway,” Daisy interrupts. Thomas remembers suddenly how long she carried a torch for him, and tries not to let himself wonder too much right now about what his utter lack of interest might have done to her impression of her own looks.

“Yes,” he admits. “But you can’t be so stupid anymore when you’re thirty.”

He nods at her. The corner of her mouth twitches like she is well aware, and her eyes flick away like she is not sure she has lived up to the challenge of not being stupid at thirty. _You have no idea_ , he thinks with a twinge of nostalgic bitterness, then wonders if perhaps he should tell her the whole story so that they can compare their respective stupidity properly.

Maybe later.

He continues. “But there was the war and all the rest between when I was twenty and when I was thirty, so I didn’t get the chance to learn that slowly. It was a shock, to say the least. And then…well it seemed easier to settle into middle age a bit ahead of schedule, I suppose. Easier to try to be someone different if you’re at least pretending you’ve got a reason for it.”

“Is that why you were Andy’s ‘Uncle Thomas’ for a while?”

Thomas finds that the words paired with Daisy’s frank, almost confrontational expression set his teeth on edge. His smile, he knows, isn’t quite convincing.

“Yes.”

“It didn’t seem very like you.”

“Well, I was just trying something, wasn’t I,” he grumbles

Daisy ignores his grimace. “Jimmy’s my age, isn’t he?”

“I think he’s a year or two younger than you are,” he corrects, hoping she’ll take offense and abandon this line of questioning. But she still stares at him as if she’s working through a maths problem.

“You were just his friend, though. Not his uncle or anything.”

“No.” His jaw feels tight, his face mask-like. “I probably should have gone more for that, though...”

Daisy doesn’t have hawkish features but she’s wearing a hawkish expression now. Thomas wants to wonder what she’s thinking, or why he feels so bloody awkward, but all he finds he can manage is to keep himself from fidgeting. If he really were the aging mentor he pretends to be, maybe he would take this better in his stride.

“It’s strange,” Daisy says, mercifully breaking the silence, “I know I am getting older, but sometimes I think I haven’t changed at all, like time’s forgotten me—I know it doesn't make sense, but I still feel like a child, mostly. Everyone’s always scolding me and shouting at me to get a move on…Mrs Patmore doesn’t mean anything by it, but it still happens. And I’ve not done anything with my life; I’ve learnt a lot, but I’m still in the kitchens, and I’ve been married but it weren’t a real marriage, and well…I feel cleverer, and _bigger_ , somehow—” she hits her chest with her fist, speaking with passion but with her eyes staring through the table rather than focused on Thomas, “—but I’m still just Daisy the kitchen maid. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like a proper woman. A proper _adult_.”

She looks again at him, as if he can give her a real answer. At first, with her large, round eyes and unguarded expression, he thinks it is a youthful—indeed, immature—thing for her to hope that he can give her. Like she really is fifteen and he really is fifty, and he really does have some sort of sage, fatherly advice for her.

But that appraisal only lasts a second before he sees how ridiculous it is. Her face has changed a bit in the years since he met her. No grey in her hair yet like there is starting to be in his, no wrinkles to speak of, but a change in the skin around her eyes, and less plumpness in her cheeks. She is very much a woman—a woman Thomas has worked and lived with for a long time. A woman who, really, is not much younger than him, whose life is not as different from his own as he might at times believe. She isn’t a child looking for advice from a grown-up; she’s an adult looking for the support of an equal.

Thomas becomes suddenly aware that he is very fond of Daisy.

“Maybe I’ve stolen your years off you,” he half-laughs under his breath. The side of her mouth quirks up, a flicker of amusement on her face.

“I wish you’d give them back, then.”

“Shouldn’t you be pleased? I thought you were just worried about being too old.”

“Just too old for Andy,” she corrects him. “I’m not worried about being too old for _myself_.”

That makes sense, he thinks, but he doesn’t have time to consider it much before she corrects him again.

“I wish you’d give me my years back for your sake as much as mine, anyway. We used to be friends before you left me so much behind.”

He doesn’t know which stuns him more: that she thinks he’s left her behind, or that she thinks they used to be friends. When could she possibly mean? When he was using her to torment William? Before that, when they formed some vague solidarity around their mutual newness when they first started? When Daisy and Ivy were fighting over Jimmy and Alfred, and Thomas was doing his best to rise above it all? He doesn’t know.

“We’re friends now, aren’t we?” he says, because he finds he wants rather badly for it to be true. A genuine smile spreads across Daisy’s face.

He doesn’t know if she’s too old for Andy, or if age will make much difference to their developing opinions of each other. Even if it doesn’t work out between her and Andy—or her and anyone—Thomas has every confidence that she’ll be alright being single among friends. If he can do it, there’s no question in his mind that she can too.


	3. Sybil Crawley and Edward Courtenay (and Tom Branson)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for some suicide attempt references at the end of this one.

“I don’t suppose I might have one of those.”

Thomas has been outside the village hospital smoking for the last hour now, aware that he desperately needs to sleep, but unable to focus his eyes or pry himself away from the brick wall. He doesn’t know why. He’s not thinking about anything. He hardly even notices the rustle of skirts when someone slumps against the wall next to him.

He looks up when she speaks though. And is surprised to find that it is Lady Sybil who has joined him.

“Evening, Nurse Crawley.” He hurries to stand up straight, but she just gestures tiredly for him to stand down.

“Please, just Sybil; I can’t bear to be anything more than that tonight.”

She points to his cigarette, reminding him that she asked him for one a few seconds ago. He fumbles with his case, feeling strange about the situation but not enough to refuse. He passes one to her (it’s cheap, he becomes sharply aware, but she’s the one who asked) and lights it; she doesn’t cough. He takes a drag on his own and looks back at the same spot on the ground he’s been staring at since planting himself here.

“The blind soldier?” she asks after a few minutes of silence. He nods dully. Sometimes at the hospital a particular patient or event sets one of them off; they all manage professionalism until nighttime, but then, often, they fall into a despondency like Thomas’s now.

“Same for you?” His voice sounds bad, but that can’t be helped. Sybil takes a deep draw on her cigarette.

“And Sergeant Major Downey,” she agrees. Thomas nods again. Downey has been here for a week, Sybil washing his wounds five times a day every day and growing fonder of him every time. He will not be getting better.

She finishes the cigarette and murmurs her thanks. Thomas expects her to push off from the wall and leave, but she doesn’t. Instead, she shuffles a little closer to him, so their sleeves are just brushing. He wants to be annoyed, but he finds himself almost overcome with a strange sense of camaraderie with her that he knows will not last.

“Is his life really over, as he says?” she asks.

Thomas knows what she means; Lieutenant Courtenay tried to keep his voice down but didn’t do a very good job of it when he received the letter. Sybil, ever the attentive nurse, must have overheard.

“No,” he says softly. “But I understand why he said what he did. I wish…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Sybil leans her shoulder against his arm briefly.

“He doesn’t have anyone.” He doesn’t mean to say it; the words just slip past his lips. “His life is…he might be alright, but he can’t imagine how, and he’s all alone. He’s lost his independence, and he’s got no one to look after him either anymore. If there was just something for him after all this, someone, but…”

He doesn’t know where he is going with this so he stops. Sybil’s posture shifts slightly; he can sense the exhaustion on her.

“ _You_ are here for him,” she tells him, and it shouldn’t be so reassuring, but it is. “Your devotion gives him strength. We shall be his friends, and help as best we can, until he’s well, and then perhaps afterwards too. Won’t we, Thomas.”

It’s not a question, and it’s not condescension despite her use of his Christian name. Thomas glances sideways at her, and she flashes a tired little smile that promises her friendship is for him as much as it is for Edward Courtenay. He finds his expression has mirrored hers.

Sybil does push off the wall then, with a touch of her hand to his shoulder.

“I’ll try not to forget to sleep if you will promise to try not to forget either,” she almost laughs. She is right to say it; forgetting (or failing) to sleep is a common problem these days. It’s strange that Thomas should feel that any of the Crawleys cares what he does, and he has always felt that if he were to feel any kinship with any of them his best chance would be Lady Mary. Sybil, truth be told, always seemed a bit frivolous to him, but as she walks away he has the distant, tired feeling that he might have been misinterpreting her openness of character for the last several years. Kindness is not always naïveté, no matter how difficult that is for Thomas to believe most of the time.

He decides that he might as well go try to sleep too. Tomorrow will be hard, just as today was, just as the day after is bound to be; he needs whatever rest he can get. His opinion of Sybil might have hardened again by morning, but he can’t think about that yet, because believing her words right now is likely to be the only way he will manage to get any sleep at all tonight. 

*

Edward Courtenay is like a ray of sunlight on a grey winter day when he laughs.

It doesn’t happen often, but once in a while he chuckles at something Thomas says when he is keeping him company. It’s never more than a quiet sound under his breath—laughing is difficult in a place where people are dying, even when one isn’t as wretchedly depressed as Edward is—but it’s _something_ , and Thomas feels almost giddy to have the privilege of witnessing it when he does.

This afternoon, though, has not been a very mirthful one. Thomas and Sybil have been doing their best to help Lieutenant Courtenay to walk in the yard outside, but it’s slow going, and Edward is been growing more and more frustrated the longer they’re at it. Thomas has been whispering encouragement into his ear, and Sybil is convinced they’re making progress, but Edward seems increasingly at risk of throwing himself to the ground in a fit of hopelessness if they carry on much longer. Thomas catches Sybil’s eye meaningfully more than once, trying to communicate that they should stop for the afternoon, but she just shakes her head, though her expression is tighter every time. Thomas is about to demand what she thinks she’s playing at when Edward stumbles for the hundredth time that day and he has to catch him.

With Edward shaking against his shoulder, Thomas can’t keep himself from glaring at Sybil who looks worried despite the determined way her jaw is set. _We should have stopped half an hour ago_ , Thomas thinks, wishing he knew what to do other than hold Edward as bracingly as he can. _You shouldn’t push men to tears like this; it’s not right._

And then he sees—is Sybil _smiling_? She _is_ smiling—looking at their crying patient and smiling! Thomas is about to snap at her to leave, status be damned, when she raises her eyes to beam at him. Confused, Thomas tries to get a look at Edward’s face just as he straightens himself up against Thomas and starts laughing in earnest.

Like sunlight in winter, Thomas marvels, as all his resentment melts away and he too starts to laugh.

“I wish I knew what you looked like,” Edward says, catching his breath. He has Sybil by the hand but his face is turned directly toward Thomas as if he can see him through his ruined eyes somehow. Thomas is sure that no one has ever been so beautiful. “I can’t thank either of you enough for not giving up on me.”

Sybil smiles sidelong at Thomas. “That is what friends are for, Lieutenant.”

Thomas tries to think of something to say, but all that comes to mind is a vivid image of Edward smiling just like he is now, his arm around Thomas and his cheeks pink and surrounded by dazzling snow somewhere far away from here. _How could I possibly give up on you? I never could, and I never will,_ Thomas thinks, even though he knows he can’t say it.

At least, he can’t say it here. He can’t say it _yet_.

Edward presses closer to him, seeming happier than he has been since he arrived at the hospital.

He can’t say it yet, but maybe some day.

*

Thomas isn’t much for visiting graves. He never has been.

But it is six months since…the cricket match. Since he _wasn’t_ sacked without reference, and he _wasn’t_ arrested. The gratitude has worn off; the embarrassment has worn off. In place of those feelings, the loneliness has very much set in.

And so he finds himself standing in front of Lady—Nurse— _Sybil’s_ grave.

He doesn’t know what one is meant to do at someone’s grave. He didn’t think to bring flowers. He doesn’t have anything to say, really. He paces a bit, not quite comfortable standing and just staring at her name, but he doesn’t like the restlessness of walking here either. He has come for _her_ , and he doesn’t enjoy interrupting himself to pretend he cares about the people around her.

Servants aren’t meant to sit in the presence of their betters, he muses distantly. What does he care, is his instinctive mental retort, but then he reminds himself that Sybil wouldn’t care either, so he sits with his back against her headstone. This isn’t the proper way to visit the dead, he knows, but it feels as right as anything, so he stays there with the cold of the earth slowly creeping through his coat into his hips, fiddling with his gloves and trying to decide if he feels any less alone here than he does in the house.

He hears footsteps coming up the graveyard path toward him so he scrambles to his feet, knowing it would look very strange for him to be sitting there to an observer. The footsteps stop.

Tom Branson is standing several plots away, looking at him with a startled expression that Thomas expects matches his own. Thomas self-consciously brushes dirt from his coat and blanks his face, but it’s much too late to make this unexpected encounter feel normal.

“Good afternoon, Mr Branson,” Thomas says. Branson regains his composure (approximately) as well, and comes the last paces to stand on the path in front of his late wife’s stone.

“I forgot you knew her at the hospital,” Branson says. He sounds like a chauffeur, not…whatever he is now. He also sounds sad, and more than a bit nostalgic. Thomas nods. “I didn’t know you visited her.”

“I don’t,” Thomas replies without thinking, then wishes he hadn’t. Branson almost smiles for a second.

“I never understood why she wanted to be friends with you,” Branson admits. Thomas bristles, but Branson laughs and it doesn’t sound malicious. “I’m sure you could say the same about me, though.”

Thomas doesn’t deny it, and Branson laughs again, the nostalgia in his face overtaking the sadness. Thomas pictures a number of things he might say if they weren’t in front of Sybil’s grave and Branson weren’t in whatever mood this is and Thomas himself didn’t feel quite so fragile at the moment—none of them very pleasant. So he swallows and lets his posture drop just subtly out of service stiffness.

“She’d be glad you’re here,” Branson remarks. Thomas has never really liked it when widowed people speak on behalf of a deceased spouse; it always seems presumptuous and unnecessary to him, but he joins Branson on the path to stand almost shoulder to shoulder with him looking at the place where he was just sitting. For once, Thomas hopes Branson is right.

That night, he makes himself think about how it must be difficult for Branson to be a new father alone in the world without a real home anymore or a clear place in society. He doesn’t want to wallow in it, but he thinks, for Sybil’s sake, he might as well try to sympathize. Just a bit.

The next morning at breakfast, Branson flashes Thomas a half-smile as he fetches himself an orange. That happens again at breakfast a few days later, and then sometimes at lunch or even dinner, when there are not guests present. Not often, but occasionally. Thomas never smiles back.

Branson also occasionally asks Thomas about snippets of gossip he has heard from downstairs. Thomas provides details when he knows them (almost always, despite his current complete isolation), curt and to the point, but often with just a bit more candor than is strictly required of him. He can always feel Sybil behind the short conversations, even though he knows she is entirely in his own mind.

Months later, Branson helps Thomas to his feet after all the Downton men fall to the grass after winning the tug-of-war in Thirsk, and they clap each other amicably on the back. It feels surprisingly natural. Almost like they could’ve been friends, if things had been different.

A few hours after that, Branson shoulders half of Thomas’s weight helping him into wagonette. Tom rides with the people he used to work alongside on the ride back to the house. Thomas’s attention is devoted primarily to his injuries with only a little room reserved for Jimmy, sitting sullen and scared across from him—but Sybil’s husband is there too. When Thomas returns to work, he will murmur his thanks to him when they pass in the hallway, wondering how much he suspects about what happened at the fair, and how much he’ll ever know.

*

The towers of Downton Abbey are high but easy to reach for anyone motivated.

There is a small lake on the grounds, and rocks that would fit neatly into pockets.

He knows where the guns are, and how to use them.

Chemistry has never been his strong suit, but he knows what rat poison is, at least.

There are rafters and rope, and train tracks, and, beyond them, there are busy city streets full of lorries.

But none of those options quite puts his mind at ease.

Thomas shouldn’t consider it romantic to follow Edward’s lead, but he does. It is as romantic as anything he has ever done, he thinks as he lowers himself into the bathtub and rolls up his sleeves. His attempts at romance always go wrong, but this one won’t. It can’t. He is sure of it.

He closes his eyes and imagines that he is finally falling into the arms of someone who has been waiting to hold him for a long time. Who has never given up on Thomas, just as Thomas vowed never to give up on him.

It is a beautiful last thought to have. 


	4. Jimmy Kent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is somehow both shippy and not. How did that happen? Beats me.

It’s funny with Jimmy.

Thomas understands why the older staff are ambivalent about Jimmy—persons to remain unnamed have described him as “vain,” “a bit of a nuisance,” and “half a waste of a salary” when they thought they were alone. Now Thomas has some distance from everything, he can see that Jimmy _is_ a shameless flirt who doesn’t consider other people’s feelings as much as he should. Ambitious but lazy, charming but not as clever as some. Not the loveliest of qualities, on the whole, if not for how they fit into the rest of his personality. Thomas might, perhaps, a bit, initially have been inclined to look more thoroughly for the depth in him because he spent so very much time looking at his surface. You admire anyone long enough you’re bound to find something to connect with in them, after all. That’s it. Right? 

Thomas recognized his own bias fairly soon after the…misunderstanding…and certainly by the time he’d taken Jimmy’s beating for him. An infatuation turned sour shouldn’t, perhaps, have been enough to make him willing to step in the way he had. Shouldn’t be a very solid foundation for a friendship, either, and yet, here they are, friends.

So, yes, it’s funny with Jimmy.

It’s also funny with Jimmy because, at the moment, Jimmy’s hand is wrapped around Thomas’s upper arm and he is leaning around him, right ear not more than a few inches from Thomas’s chin, to get a better look at a tall, black-haired woman near to Thomas’s age strolling down the town road. Jimmy is pretending to point out something in the shop window behind the woman, and Thomas is pretending to be interested.

Jimmy likes to share space with people he’s comfortable with when he talks to them, Thomas has discovered now he can count himself in that lucky group. Easy for Ivy to take it to mean something significant, even though it obviously _doesn’t_ , when Jimmy uses his hands to express himself with Alfred and Daisy—even Mrs Patmore, once or twice, to Thomas’s silent amusement—as often as he does so with her. People see what they want and ignore what they don’t easily enough.

Jimmy pulls back to laugh, and Thomas tries to push back the heady warmth that always seems to go along with Jimmy’s casual touches.

As his mind settles, he finds himself unexpectedly thinking about Daisy.

Thomas has never been accused of being a flirt like Jimmy is, but he has led people on before, and done so with more deliberateness than Jimmy does. Daisy, bless her, was his victim for years. It wasn’t about her; it was just about one-upping William: Thomas always disdained his fellow footmen before the war, and he knew the askance looks William used to give Daisy meant _does she even know I exist?_ It wasn’t bad for Thomas’s pride that the answer to that, clearly, was _yes, she does, but she knows I exist more_. It seemed harmless enough at the time; Thomas was only being nice to Daisy; it wasn’t his responsibility to make sure nobody got hurt from that, was it?

Jimmy grabs Thomas light-heartedly by the shoulder to steer them both down the street. Thomas feels a sudden pang of guilt toward Daisy.

It’s not the same. Obviously, it’s not the same with Jimmy and him as it was with him and Daisy. That was when he was very young, and Daisy younger still, and he was doing it on purpose. Thomas is very much an adult now, older than Jimmy, and he knows beyond a fraction of a doubt where he stands, no matter Jimmy’s familiarity with him. Daisy’s hope was well-founded. Thomas only has a fool’s hope—one which, by rights, he should have outgrown by now.

Jimmy continues to steer Thomas amicably by the shoulder for half a block. Thomas never used to mind Daisy’s interest in him, he remembers. Her taste in men wasn’t discerning enough for her attention to be an especially strong compliment, but it never _bothered_ him that she liked him. If it had, maybe he would have taken more pains to avoid her, as he did with a few others before and since. Unreciprocated affection can sometimes get a bit sickly, even at the best of times. It therefore surprises Thomas that Jimmy is willing to make any kind of physical contact with him at all now, considering that being to Thomas’s tastes is more insult than compliment to ordinary men. Good of Jimmy, then, to look past his disgust, so that he can walk beside Thomas now with a smile on his face, gossiping about events in York they’d read about in the paper, entering and exiting Thomas’s space as he would with anyone else, without any meaning at all.

*

When Thomas catches Jimmy hiding in the pantry with a spoon in a jam jar, Jimmy offers his spoils to Thomas without a trace of hesitation.

When Thomas hesitates to take it, Jimmy just offers more forcefully and says, “go on, Mr Barrow. I know you like sweets.”

 _Dammit, I do_ , Thomas thinks, and takes the jar. Jimmy grins.

“What kind is it?” Thomas asks. He sees that it is strawberry.

“Strawberry,” Jimmy says.

 _Jimmy was just eating off this spoon_ , Thomas thinks.

“How’d you get it?”

“I’m distracting and light-fingered.” Jimmy winks. “Hurry up and have some, or I’ll take it back and not share with you.”

The jam is good. Thomas cleans the spoon with his tongue more thoroughly than he quite needs to, and reminds himself that Jimmy is only watching because there’s nothing else to look at in the mostly-dark pantry.

“Don’t tell me you’re shocked at my wrongdoing,” Jimmy comments. “I’m sure you’ve done the same, and in just the same way too, no doubt about it. You’ll not convince me you’ve never nicked a treat off someone too busy being charmed to notice.”

Thomas smirks and hands the jar (and spoon) back. Jimmy raises his eyebrows like he’s caught Thomas out and not the other way around. When he takes another mouthful of sweet jam from the spoon Thomas just ate off of, he does so as confidently as when he offered it.

Having a friend like this is nice, Thomas thinks. Though he wishes a bit that he could stop making so much of the little details of his friend’s behavior which are, clearly, meaningless.

*

“What happened to your hand?”

Thomas glances at his right hand as he lowers the teacup from his mouth. “Nothing, far as I know.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes. “The _other_ one.”

“Oh.” Thomas blinks. “War wound.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes again, more dramatically. “I know _that_ , but what _happened_?”

“Shot,” Thomas replies, and takes another sip of tea.

“Can I see?”

“No.”

“Don’t be like that, Mr Barrow. Please?”

Thomas finds that being pestered like this becomes tiresome quickly, so he is annoyed with himself for saying, “no,” again in such a peevish tone that it sounds like a dare. Jimmy, expert in petulance, doesn’t miss the taunt.

Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t follow up in kind.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, voice gentler. Thomas involuntarily remembers showing his hand to O’Brien when he first got back, how he presented it like some sort of bizarre trophy. That was a good front at the time, though he’s not sure he could put it up again now.

“Not really. Sometimes when it rains.”

“It always rains,” Jimmy says. Thomas takes another sip of tea. Jimmy’s lips fall into a soft frown, and there is a pause that borders uncomfortably ( _thrillingly_ ) on anticipation. Anticipation of _what_ , exactly, Thomas doesn’t know, and he’s not sure he wants to give himself space to speculate on the possibilities.

“What’s got you so interested all of a sudden?” he demands, feigning annoyance poorly. Jimmy shrugs, taking him in stride.

“We always talk about me. Reckoned we could use a change, and I’ve always wondered about your hand.”

Thomas snorts. “You must have better things to wonder about than that.”

Jimmy’s eyes snap sharply to his. “Not really.”

Thomas has no idea what to say to that. He stares at Jimmy, feeling the seconds tick by too quickly for how slowly his mind is providing him with words for any kind of response.

When Alfred enters the room, the strange silence shatters around them. Thomas deflates, but Jimmy turns the tension to spikes.

“Get out, Alfred! Blimey, mind your own business for once.”

Thomas is too startled to attempt to reprimand either of them, so he just watches Alfred’s befuddlement and subsequent retreat. Jimmy is scowling when he turns back to Thomas, but he quickly returns to a lighter attitude. “There’s always someone lurking about; I should’ve waited to ask until everyone had gone to bed. Sorry, Mr Barrow. But I still would like to know, if you’ll ever tell me.”

He fixes Thomas with a charming smile that is also unambiguously apologetic. Thomas returns a fainter smile, now startled by both the sincere curiosity and suggested intimacy of Jimmy’s request.

Thomas isn’t keen to show him his hand, though the reasoning behind his instinctive reluctance is feeble. He wonders if…it’s silly, but still, he wonders if he _could_ ever tell Jimmy how it happened. People are more understanding now than they were while the war was still ongoing…Jimmy can be too dismissive of other people’s troubles, true, but he hasn’t been with Thomas’s for some time now; he can be understanding and he’s never been one to judge a successful evasion harshly. It’s not a secret Thomas has been eager to tell; it doesn’t gnaw at him, but if Jimmy really wants to know, maybe…maybe he could…some day….

But Jimmy doesn’t really want to know all that, Thomas reminds himself. Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s really asking, because if he did, he wouldn’t want to hear about it. Never mind that Jimmy is still looking at him like he’s got something very interesting written across his face. Jimmy is Thomas’s friend, in as much as anyone is, but he’s not his confidant, and like all the other little things Thomas still latches foolishly onto about his behavior, the fact that Jimmy made a gesture suggesting he _wants_ Thomas to confide in him about something so personal is, _as always_ , completely meaningless.

*

…Except it _isn’t_ always completely meaningless, _is it?_

When drink has been flowing liberally, and Jimmy falls against Thomas’s shoulder and mumbles Thomas’s praises against his throat, that isn’t meaningless, is it?

When Thomas, feeling the weight of the responsibility he took on when he accepted the offer to be under-butler, soberly helps Jimmy to his door (he does not—will not—drink around Jimmy; he will not have any missteps; he will not open himself to vulnerability through carelessness, not for anything, especially not a few pints of cheap beer), and Jimmy holds onto the door and Thomas’s forearm, lips parted, looking like he wants to say something but does nothing but stare at Thomas in silence, that isn’t meaningless, is it?

When the maids are talking about handsome film actors and Jimmy’s eyes flick immediately up to Thomas, or when Jimmy swallows hard when his fingers brush Thomas’s as he hands him a saucer, or when Jimmy starts to ask mysterious questions but cuts himself off with pink cheeks and his gaze averted—that’s not nothing. Thomas might let his imagination get away from him sometimes, but this isn’t just his imagination and he knows it. He remembers what it was like to be coming to terms with himself; he was much younger than Jimmy is; he was clear from the start that he did not like girls as he was expected to, whereas Jimmy most definitely _does_ , but Thomas isn’t blind, and he knows—he _knows_ —it’s not _all_ meaningless.

Maybe if Thomas had been smarter the first time. Maybe if Jimmy hadn’t made such a fuss that it would hurt his pride to allow himself to ask the questions properly. Maybe if laws were different, or they were the same age, or Mr Carson were not the butler, or O’Brien had been a little less vicious in her scheming, or Thomas had known more of what was going on behind his back.

Maybe maybe maybe…maybe a lot of things. But Thomas isn’t going to try anything, and he doesn’t think Jimmy is going to try anything either unless he’s drunk, and Thomas will not have that: there will be no excuses if there is to be anything, and so there will be nothing at all.

The door closes behind Jimmy. Thomas stands in the empty corridor and listens to jacket, waistcoat, shoes, tie, shirt, braces fall to the floor inside, listens to a body sink heavily onto a mattress, and then finally listens to the quiet. He allows himself a few seconds just to stand outside the door, but that is all.

Thomas shuts himself into his own room, readies himself for bed, and wishes having friends were not so complicated at it always seems to be for him.

*

Thomas knows it’s bad to let this happen. Jimmy is less than enthusiastic about seeing Lady Anstruther again; Thomas knows, if things were different, he should use his tricks to help Jimmy avoid making a mistake. Contrive for Jimmy to be inconveniently occupied elsewhere or ill (or even for Lady A to be ill, depending on how vindictive a mood he was in). Or, if he were a better man, tell Jimmy of his own exploits involving the aristocracy, which did not end well; this is not the same as that, but perhaps if Jimmy knew he isn’t alone in being a plaything for someone much more powerful than himself, he would feel more able to put a stop to it.

But that would be if things were different, and, unfortunately, things aren’t different. Unfortunately, Thomas continues to try at every opportunity to prove himself a worthy friend to Jimmy, neither greedy and jealous nor lovesick and silly, and so, if Jimmy has the opportunity to climb into bed with a woman he’s at all interested in, Thomas has to help him do it.

And, unfortunately, Thomas has grown up in the last few years, and so he does the right thing and saves Lady Edith before trying to warn Jimmy of the danger, because Jimmy’s risk is the sack whereas Lady Edith’s is her life. And, unfortunately, the smoke is thick, and Thomas is coughing when Lord Grantham announces he is going to check the rooms and so Thomas knows he is too late, and so, unfortunately, Jimmy is found out, and, unfortunately, that is that.

It is a good farewell that Jimmy gives him. Thomas has never received an expression of affection quite like it before. He watches his friend—his _real_ friend, unimaginable as it might once have been—drive away, and thinks dully that he is grateful Jimmy felt he deserved such a kind, genuine goodbye.

*

He sends Jimmy one letter, and receives one reply. He sends another letter, and waits, then sends another, because Jimmy assured him that it’s nothing personal if he doesn’t write; he’s just bad at keeping in touch long-distance.

Thomas pens another, but never sends it. It’s too pathetic to send three letters in a row without reply, and upon rereading it he finds the text too sentimental to tolerate anyhow.

He tries to be angry with Jimmy for not trying harder, but the anger doesn’t take. Even if Jimmy did write, it wouldn’t be the same, so he’s right not to waste his time. Thomas would still miss him every day, even if the letters were long and regular. So instead of being angry, Thomas tries to forget him—though, really, he knows that will never take either.


	5. Phyllis Baxter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for syringe and suicide attempt references. 
> 
> I have seen a number of Barrow sisters named Margaret, so I'm keeping that tradition going.

Phyllis Baxter was neither especially sweet nor especially sour during Thomas’s childhood. She was enough older than him that he did not, perhaps, have the best perspective on her character compared to those of others, but his impression of her was essentially that she was ordinary. Ordinary in a way he liked at the time, but ordinary. She would snicker behind her hand when he swiped something off one of his playmates, but then insist that he give it back. She would congratulate him for his athletic success, but tease him sometimes too. Once, she flirted with the boy she knew Margaret was sweet on, but later she apologized and gave the boy up. She was soft-spoken and gentle-mannered except when she was cross, when she could develop a rather sharp (if still quiet) tongue.

She was observant—more so than anyone else Thomas knew back then. She could pick out an injury, or hurt feelings, or a guilty conscience with striking accuracy. She knew most of what went on around her, and Thomas admired that. But she had loving parents, and she trusted adults, and so she had her blind spots just like everyone did. She liked Mr Barrow, and Thomas was the right age to be slouching into the sulkiness of adolescence, so her best friend’s little brother’s bitterness did not seem meaningful to her. 

She took a job as a maid in a house in a different county when she was nineteen, purposeless, recently jilted, and therefore less observant than usual. It didn’t occur to her to think it strange that thirteen-year-old Thomas’s goodbye to her was colder than it was sad, or that he snapped at his sister for crying, or that he scowled bitterly at Mr Barrow’s warm farewell as Phyllis took her leave. 

Almost two decades later, it does occur to her to think all those things strange, and many more things too. Thomas berates himself every day for failing to realize that observant people often also have good memories, because he doesn’t want Phyllis to see the child he used to be in the man he has become. He must impress upon her that he isn’t a scared little boy anymore; he’s the one in control now.

So he scares _her_ , to show her who he has become; to make her see the difference in him: he’s not scared. He’s in control.

He’s in control.

_He’s in control._

He can’t remember anything hurting as much as this needle does.

*

“You won’t just let me be fond of you!” Phyllis laughs. Molesley makes a disapproving face as Thomas leaves the room without responding.

There is a sliver of Thomas left that is screaming to let Phyllis be fond of him, that clings desperately to the knowledge that she _is_ fond of him—as much as she can be, for how little he gives her to be fond of. But most of him is just tired, and wishes she would leave him alone. It is all he can do to work, eat, sleep, and read the paper. Mechanically, like clockwork. Every time she talks to him, he has to scrape up whatever energy he can manage to be _Thomas Barrow_ , a human being with at least the illusion of a personality. It drains him, and whatever meager comfort he gets from her continuing patience with him is far outweighed by the struggle of interaction, and the knowledge that it is only a matter of time before she too gets fed up with him.

There is still that sliver, but it is shrinking with every day that passes. He wonders dully whether it will be the panic or the exhaustion that will inevitably eclipse it. He doesn’t think he will have to wait long to find out.

*

“Do you remember when I would come over to visit your sister when you were small? Before you learned to be indignant about people being sweet to you?” Phyllis says, smile almost impish on her gentle face. Thomas lowers his eyes, but smiles back in affirmation.

“You always wanted to comb my hair.”

“I did always want to comb your hair,” Phyllis says fondly. “Your lovely, shiny, silky black hair. I always wanted hair like yours, but I knew I couldn’t carry it off like you.”

Thomas finds his eyes drifting shut as Phyllis cards her fingers through his hair now, twisting little locks of it carefully as she goes, nails scratching ever so lightly across his scalp and sending waves of warm tingles down his back. Warmth is good; he has been so cold lately despite all the blankets piled on top of him. Her fingers are not much warmer than the air, but Thomas finds they warm him nonetheless.

It has been a while since anyone touched him this kindly.

“I’ll bet you don’t remember the time you fell asleep on me,” she says. There’s a nostalgic playfulness to her voice that Thomas doesn’t think he has ever heard before from her about anything, or directed at him by anyone. Her fingers on his head are all but hypnotizing him, but he tries to pull the memory she is referring to back to mind.

“After the footrace,” he mumbles, recalling the sporting event at the school in which he had done well (he had always been tall for his age, and athletic naturally), but which had been exhausting. Phyllis nods. “Did I really fall asleep on you?”

“You did.” She runs the pad of her thumb across his eyebrows. “You fell asleep sitting against the bench I was on, with your head on my knee. It didn’t look to me like a very nice place to sleep, with nothing but the stones under you and everyone cheering so loudly, but you didn’t seem to mind.”

“I would mind now,” he mutters without much feeling. Right now, he feels like he could go to sleep anywhere. “Higher standards.”

Phyllis chuckles under her breath, and keeps combing his hair with her fingers in silence. Her weight shifts beside him; she has been perched at the very edge of the mattress, so he pushes himself over and onto his side to give her more space.

“I can’t reach your forehead as well like that, now, can I?” she croons.

He makes a muffled _mmph_ noise, and wraps his fingers around the fabric under them, which turns out to be part of her skirt. This is not very dignified, but, he supposes neither is anything about his present situation. Phyllis doesn’t care, at least. Maybe later he will think about how silly it is that he turned out like he did, while she turned out to be the picture of goodness she is proving herself to be, but that can wait.

She does and says nothing, and he opens his eyes to meet hers. She just looks down at him for a moment, faint smile on her mouth and a hint of hesitancy in her expression, then extends her hand again to caress the side of his face. She nods, then lies down on top of the blankets on the narrow bed beside him. He just keeps looking at her, his mind quiet for once. Her smile widens seeing that he does not object to this act of intimacy, and she brushes the backs of her fingers against his cheek before tucking her hands under her chin and closing her eyes. Thomas closes his too, and tips forward just slightly to put his forehead against hers. She breathes out what is not quite a laugh.

“There we are,” she murmurs to him. “There we are, now.”

Yes, he thinks. Here we are, now.

He might have fallen asleep, or maybe not. He has not moved, and neither has she, but he has the sense that time has passed. He repositions the arm he’d had under his head, and whimpers slightly at the change in pressure on the still-fresh wound under his bandages. Phyllis shifts beside him.

“Everything alright?” she asks. His mouth is tight, but the pain is already subsiding, so he nods. “I should give you back your bed; let you alone to get some sleep.”

She sits up, but he wishes she wouldn’t. His hand trails weakly after her, and again finds part of her skirt.

“Stay,” he says. His voice is muffled by the pillow and by drowsiness, but it is audible enough. She lays her hand gently on the back of his.

“I’ll be just there, not three feet away. You ought to be comfortable, without me crowding you. You need your rest.”

He shakes his head, and opens his eyes once again to find hers.

“Please.”

Whatever tiny piece of resolve was in her expression melts. If anyone else looked at him like that he would hate it, but she is not anyone else. Phyllis is his friend, well and truly, like he has never had a friend before. He wonders if it would be wrong to think of her as his sister, when he had not been sure only a couple of days ago if she even wanted to be his acquaintance. He supposes the things that happened since then justify skipping some steps.

She nods.

“Let me dress for bed, at least?” she asks. He lets go of her skirt, and smiles faintly up at her.

She is not up for very long, or maybe he has just drifted off—again, he can’t tell where his consciousness ends and begins—but soon she is back, her hair braided and her nightdress wrapped around her. He flips the blankets back a bit weakly, just an inch or two, just as a gesture: she need not get under them with him if she prefers not to; he would understand if that was too familiar yet. But she pulls them back and gets into the bed without hesitation, and for reasons he can’t begin to articulate he finds that to be almost relief enough to bring him to tears.

“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t know what he’s sorry for. Maybe how small the bed is. Maybe that, along with everything else.

“No,” she responds simply.

“Mr Carson’ll have a fit.”

It sounds like something a child would say. Perhaps that is appropriate. Phyllis smiles.

“I don’t believe that much matters to you, Mr Barrow, does it?”

“Please don’t…don’t call me that now.”

She nods against his pillow, and stretches her neck to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Thomas, then,” she says, quiet and bracing at once. He exhales slowly, and lets his eyes close again. “You must be so tired, Thomas.”

And he is. He really, really is. She wraps an arm around him, and he buries his face in her warm shoulder. 

“I know." Her cheek moves at his temple as she speaks softly into his hair. "I’ve got you. Sometimes all you need is someone who’s got you. And I’ve got you, Thomas. I’ve got you.”

If he weren’t so exhausted in every possible way, he thinks he might embrace her back, but his whole body feels like it’s made of lead. So instead he just lies there and lets her hold him, and keep him safe.   
  


*

“Do you think they’ll ever trust me?” Phyllis muses almost to herself one evening. Thomas traces her absent-minded gaze to the Bateses, sitting at the other end of the table.

He shrugs, glad of the excuse to put aside his renewed job search for a moment. “They trust you well enough these days, don't they? I got you off on the wrong foot with them but they see it was my doing now.”

Phyllis looks at him imploringly, as she always does these days when he says things like that. She opens her mouth to tell him something kind and half-true, but he holds up a hand to stop her; he doesn’t need her reassurance. Not tonight, anyway.

“Is there anything you want them to trust you with in particular?” Thomas presses, to keep the focus on her. He watches her think for a moment, her fingers still poised at the sewing machine.

“No, nothing in particular. I just wonder if I might like to speak with them more, as a friend,” she replies at length. Thomas can sort of imagine why that might be; her temperament is not dissimilar to Anna’s these days, but then she continues, “Mr Bates especially.”

He gapes then. “Why on Earth would _that_ be?”

She just smiles down at her sewing. “Do you really want to know?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Sometimes I’d like to speak with someone else who has done wrong and paid the price,” she says, looking Thomas steadily in the eye. “It’s not something I can forget, or something anyone I know can understand, other than him.”

She keeps that wonderfully truthful smile she can somehow wear through anything on her face, letting her words settle as Thomas feels as if the world has shifted an inch or so under him. _Of course she wants to talk to Bates_ , he thinks. _Of course that’s why. Of course. Everyone needs a friend who understands._

He blinks, and nods, and realizes it is not within his power to make Bates trust her enough to give her that companionship.

Curiously, after that, he thinks _what would O’Brien do?_ and for the first time, perhaps ever, feels that the thought might actually be in the service of a cause that Phyllis herself would approve of.

The pieces of a plan begin to fall into place in his mind right away. Bates is further from trusting Thomas than he is from trusting Phyllis, but that’s alright; there are always moments to prove one’s worth if one only looks for them. He has practice with that; perhaps he can help point them out, so that she might work towards conversing with Bates more candidly than she can do now.

She is still looking at him, waiting for him to respond. He remembers that he will likely not be at Downton long enough to carry out a plan like this, if she would even want his help. She did not say she was looking for advice, after all; she was just sharing a thought.

“I can understand that, I think,” he says slowly. “And, much as I hate to say it, if you ever decide to try to talk with him, I expect Mr Bates would be a fine person to confide in.”

Her smile widens, every part of her demeanor warm. Thomas is glad she seems to have found that to be an acceptable answer, but he cannot believe he just praised _John Bates_ , and now her appreciation is making him squirm.

“You do have funny taste in friends, Miss Baxter,” he says in a pricklier tone to tamp back the discomfort. “Me, Molesley, Bates…I’m afraid to imagine who you’ll be after next.”

She laughs, and he feels a bit better. She takes her hand back to resume her sewing, a small smile still playing on her mouth as she works. Thomas fiddles with his pen for a few seconds, avoiding looking at the letter of inquiry he has been writing, which he might now have to leave until tomorrow. He has been cautioned against pushing himself too hard into the darkness still lurking just out of sight most of the time. Pathetic as that makes him feel, he knows it is a warning he should heed.

He stands up. “I’ve got a book for you. It’s not much, but you might like it.”

She seems intrigued, so he sets off up the stairs to fetch it. _What would O’Brien do_ …well, demonstrably, she would do this. Thomas is fairly sure that a theft sentence and an indecency sentence sit differently, but still, if that little poorly-bound, cheaply-made, several-times-thrown book could give him some solace in a time of need, it might be able to do the same for her.

*

“Well, isn’t this romantic,” Thomas scoffs when it becomes clear that Phyllis has brought him to the top of Downton’s central tower to stargaze. “Should I expect Molesley in a minute?”

Phyllis smiles. “No, it’s just us.”

She beckons him to join her at the stone railing, which he does. The moon is full and the sky is clear, so the grounds are visible in the cool blue light. With the recent early summer rains, the lawns are lush and the air sweet with the scent of blossoms and fresh earth. Phyllis snakes one hand between his arm and his side, holding him gently by the elbow as they both stare out over the peaceful country scene, so different from the cramped streets of their youth.

It is typically frowned upon to come up here, but the family have all gone to bed, and who is there to reprimand them now? Besides, Thomas reminds himself, with some amusement: Phyllis has _a past_ ; she is no stranger to a little rule-breaking. The night is just cool enough that the press of her hands through his sleeve is a welcome, if unnecessary, warmth, and he finds himself glad that she has brought him up here with her. Even though neither of them knows any constellations, so far as he is aware. And even if she has brought him out of a sense of obligation, when she might have preferred to bring someone else.

“This is the sort of thing you’re meant to do with a boyfriend,” Thomas says softly. “Not with me.”

Phyllis leans her head against his shoulder, chuckling under her breath. “I’ll do whatever I like with whomever I please.”

There is no lie in her voice. And, well…that is fair enough, really. Why do with a sweetheart what one might do with a friend? It is an unexpectedly relaxing notion, Thomas finds. At least at the moment.

They do not talk about anything for most of the hour that they stand at the top of the tower. An occasional comment here or there, but nothing worth remembering. It ought to be a boring way to spend an evening, really, but that it should have been will not cross Thomas’s mind until some time the next afternoon.

But while they are up there it is not boring; it is a nice, comfortable, easy hour with a friend, standing in a beautiful place. And that is more than enough.

*

_Some day you’ll find someone…we all need a special friend…you just haven’t found the right person yet…._

Thomas watches Phyllis scampering about trying to get herself in order to rush up to attend to her ladyship. On her way by, she gives his hand a distracted squeeze, as much to brace herself as for his benefit. He squeezes back and gets out of her way; she seems quite flustered.

He has found someone special, alright. ‘Special’ just doesn’t have quite so narrow a definition as he has been led to expect. He’s not giving up on that other kind; it could happen for him yet, but he is growing more comfortable with the idea that just because he doesn’t have that does not mean he is alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the main reason I started writing these friendship shorts at all, I think :p


	6. Lady Mary Crawley (and George)

It is one of the defining duties of a first footman to accompany the ladies of the house out when none of their male counterparts is available to escort them. Mr Carson has not appointed a new first footman by the day Christopher leaves the position, and, in an excellent demonstration of the upper class not giving any thought to the troubles of those working under them, Lady Mary announces that very morning that she wishes to visit a few shops in town in the afternoon. So Mr Carson is forced to rely on a volunteer to go with her.

Thomas has never been a lady’s chaperone before, but he is a half hour into the outing with Lady Mary, and he finds that it is not very complicated. Walk straight, stand tall, anticipate well, look handsome, be quiet. Just a day in the life, really. Lady Mary asked him one question when they first set out (“what was your name?”—never mind that Thomas _knows_ she knows; he has been at Downton for more than a year), but she has not otherwise seemed especially eager to converse with him. Christopher always used to prattle on and on about how important it is for a first footman to be able to speak fluently with the family, but if that is the sort of behavior to which he subjected Lady Mary, Thomas can understand why she didn’t like him. She doesn't seem the least bit interested in chatting.

She spends only a short while in the first shop looking at notions for dresses. She clearly knows what she is looking for. Thomas waits silently off to the side, and when she is done, he takes her bags from the shopkeeper as she cuts out the door. Things go much the same way at the next shop. At the third (and last), the shopkeeper spends a great deal of time explaining details about his wares to Lady Mary, who largely ignores him as she makes her selections. She bids the man good afternoon, turning away from him to roll her eyes at Thomas, and they carry on.

That night at dinner, Thomas carries his trays as usual, and stands as usual at the edge of the room as the family eats. Lady Grantham asks Lady Mary part way through the meal about her trip to town, which she describes as “uneventful,” “a modest success,” and “a pleasant, dull afternoon.”

The conversation proceeds to other topics after that, but Thomas knows the butler is evaluating Lady Mary’s implicit mood. Mr Carson is, rather obviously, fonder of Lady Mary than of anyone else in the household; he will know and care if she was pleased by her excursion. Following that, Thomas can feel himself being assessed in turn. He, naturally, does not acknowledge any of this in any way.

The next morning at breakfast, his promotion to first footman is announced.

*

There is a moment, when Thomas is guiding Mr Kemal Pamuk through the halls, when Thomas considers that he might have spared himself and Lady Mary a great deal of trouble if he had been a touch less sure of himself with this one. Likely Mr Pamuk would have found some other way to get to Lady Mary’s bedroom if Thomas had not handed him blackmail material so tidily, but still, he might not have had so much luck without help.

There are also several moments when Thomas feels at once gratified and annoyed that he was not  _ too _ far off in his appraisal of Mr Pamuk’s tastes; he was only wrong about one or two major details. If he were a bit luckier, his being sharp, pale, and dark-haired would have done the trick, and, again, he and Lady Mary would have been spared a great deal of trouble that night. Mr Pamuk would no doubt have much more fun with him than he would with any posh prude, Thomas thinks bitterly, watching the door to Lady Mary’s room close, feeling unpleasant in his own skin.

By the next morning, of course, all of Thomas's wishes that the previous night would have gone differently have vanished. Better for Lady Mary to have to navigate a man dying on top of her than for Thomas to have to do the same, as far as he’s concerned; nobody is handsome enough to make  _ that _ worthwhile. He jokes about it with O’Brien because it is actually rather entertaining, all things considered, and he might as well use his insider knowledge of just how ridiculous it is for further amusement, mightn’t he.

Just the same, Thomas does become a bit more cautious in his flirtations after that. Life does not grant him many chances in the coming years to be so cavalier, but even when opportunities do arise, he thinks twice in ways he would not have done before Mr Kemal Pamuk made his mark upon their lives. Thomas has no special loyalty to Lady Mary, but he does now have solid proof of what his mistakes might force him to do to save his own skin, and he dislikes the powerlessness of that. He also dislikes that his judgment could be so inaccurate in the first place, which it never has been before. He never make the conscious decision to change how he behaves, he just does it. He'll get lonely, but at least he is safe as long as he is careful.

*

Thomas stands in that same dining room, still as stone, day after day, while the family mourn Sybil. He hates Lord Grantham, but he’s never liked Lady Grantham more. Lady Edith is nothing, as Lady Edith is always nothing, and Branson…if Branson had just stayed in his god-forsaken bloody  _ place _ like the rest of them this never would have—

Thomas watches Lady Mary in his peripheral vision every day. Lady Mary, with her stuck-up face and her piercing eyes and her deplorable coldness...he can’t imagine why he ever spared her a second thought when Sybil was there all those years.

But now Sybil is gone, like William and Edward and so many good and kind others, while Thomas and Mary are still here.

And it’s not fair.

*

There is still some residual scabbing visible when Thomas returns to work, but Mr Carson has decreed, reluctantly, that it is not enough to distract anyone anymore. They need Thomas back more than they need his skin to be immaculate.

When he steps past the door separating the servants’ quarters from the rest of the house, everything is the same. The same, but too still. He goes about his duties as usual. No one gives his faded bruising a second glance, just as he ignores their grey-faced sullenness.

He hears the baby cry once, while he is checking fireplaces upstairs. So far, that is the most definite hint that anything has changed. Seems there cannot be a new baby in Downton Abbey without a veil of tragedy accompanying it.

He does not see Lady Mary until the evening meal. She is austere in her plain black, uncannily poised, and she does not speak. A stranger might say she seemed powerful, but Thomas knows this is not what Lady Mary’s power looks like.

She does not stay long once the plates are cleared. Thomas holds the door for her, and she goes, as definite as an end stop. She seems almost made to grieve for how well she does it, but her perfection is as frail as ice. And likely it will be as sharp, should anyone make the mistake of testing it to the point of fracture.

Thomas does his job. He is well enough for it, and that is all there is to be done. He is good at not troubling himself with the misfortune of others, so Lady Mary’s gloom that persists day after day, month after month with no improvement makes little difference to him. The ice will either melt or freeze through eventually; they all just have to wait to find out which it will be.

At the back of his mind, Thomas wonders if he might understand at least some part of how she feels. But he reminds himself, when he comes too close to genuine sympathy, that of course he does not understand because how could he, and that he and Lady Mary are not the same, and, most importantly, that his employer’s broken heart is none of his business anyhow.

*

Thomas doesn’t see it, but Lady Mary’s expression is an exact replica of his when Lord Sinderby insults him in front of his entire hunting party. A couple of others on the opposite side of the table do see it, though. Those who do make mental note not to cross Mary Crawley. A lady like her is fearsome enough on her own, but she much more so with the support of a servant with a temperament to match her own. A match made in hell, those two, a lady might laugh behind closed doors before bed that night, feeling relieved that she feels no need to stir up trouble like Lady Mary, if just a bit envious that she would never be able to even if she tried.

*

Thomas has a lot of time to sit and think while he waits to regain enough strength to do things again (although the degree to which he is looking forward to that is…complicated). Phyllis is with him most of the time and she is doing her best to keep his mind occupied; Andy comes in to chat as often as he’s able; even Daisy (who seems only half to believe the flu excuse but hasn’t said anything about it) lingers to offer snippets of gossip when she brings him meals…but Thomas is accustomed to constant work and bustle, and he is certainly  _ not _ accustomed to the kind of careful attention being showered upon him now. The experience is at once boring, strange, overwhelming, comforting, upsetting, and exhausting—a combination that confuses him. He has no idea how to cope with any of it.

It was a surprise when Lady Mary came down with Master George yesterday, at least. A change to shake him loose from the confusion of it all for a moment, even if they did not linger long. He had worried that he would not be permitted to see the children anymore after this, so the visit put his mind more at ease with respect to that, if nothing else. Even if he still doesn't know if he will be permitted to play with them as before. Which he could very well not. God, but this is all so tiresome.

Phyllis is doing some mending on the extra bed in Thomas’s bedroom when there is a knock at the door. She looks up, but is quiet so that he can be the one to say, “come in.”

The door opens, and the unexpected face of Nanny Halbrook peers in. Thomas pulls himself more upright against the pillows.

“Afternoon, Mr Barrow. I’ve brought you a visitor,” the nanny says, looking a bit nervous but speaking in an even voice. Thomas is still taken aback by her appearance when little George shoves past her, his hand held firm in his nanny’s, into the room.

Thomas grins despite himself.

“Miss Sybbie is out with her Papa,” Nanny Halbrook explains, emboldened by Thomas’s reaction, “but Lady Mary requested special that I bring Master George up for a while this afternoon. She says he’s been missing you. Haven’t you, Master George?”

Little George nods emphatically. Thomas glances at Phyllis, who looks as if Christmas has come early.

“May I leave him with you, Mr Barrow?” the nanny asks as Master George tugs on her hand. “I don’t expect he’ll be too much of a handful at the moment but I’ll be happy to stay if you’d rather.”

“No,” Thomas says quickly. “That is, I—we,” he nods at Phyllis, “can mind him for a while, if his mother doesn’t object.”

“Truth be told, she asked me to leave him here with you so I might do other things upstairs. It is only that I did not want to presume by leaving him, if that would not be agreeable to you,” the nanny replies. “I plan to be in the nursery; you may call if you need me. Otherwise I’ll come back for him around tea time.”

She finally lets go of her charge. In the absence of his mother, George shows more enthusiasm at being able to visit, bolting over to the bed to eagerly inspect the novelties of the servants’ quarters beside his underbutler-turned-friend. Nanny Halbrook gives Phyllis a cursory smile before slipping back out of the room to leave the three of them to it.

George is, as usual, a bit of a handful, regardless of what the nanny said. He has questions about everything and keeps forgetting that Thomas can’t get up to play like normal, but Thomas finds the child's energy could not be more welcome. He is not a bit careful with Thomas like the others are; he is just happy to see him. There is nothing complicated about his visit at all.

Nanny brings him back again the next day, at about the same time, this time with Sybbie in tow. Everything is presented sensibly, like it is the most ordinary thing in the world for Lady Mary to have requested that they be there. Thomas is a practiced servant, so he knows not to mention the obvious: that his modest room is not more interesting than the children’s playroom full of toys, that a break from routine is unorthodox at best, that it is unlikely that George has complained to his mother of boredom or of missing Thomas.

That Lady Mary would nonetheless demand that her son be brought to Thomas for a couple of hours a day has implications that are, like nearly everything else, confusing and overwhelming. Fortunately, for this at least, Thomas has a welcome distraction.

*

“Don’t trouble yourself too much, Barrow. This might as well be a quiet few days for us both.”

Lord and Lady Grantham are traveling in France, Mr Talbot and Mr Branson in London, so Lady Mary and Master George are the only two of the family in Downton for the next week. Mary says this on the first afternoon everyone else is away. Thomas stands beside the tea tray, stoic as ever.

“It is no trouble, my lady.”

Lady Mary waves her hand. “Of course it’s not, but you know what I mean. I don’t need much; you might as well take advantage of the opportunity to have some time for yourself, don’t you think?”

Thomas is not sure what to say to that; he has never been recommended time to himself by Lady Mary, and he does not want to assume that more, good or bad, is implied by the suggestion than she means.

“My lady,” he says, at a loss for a better reply.

This does not seem to satisfy her, though, as she rolls her eyes and throws her unoccupied hand up in exasperation.

“For Heaven’s sake, Barrow, I’m offering you time off, not insulting you. I am trying to keep up with what I understand the preferences of modern staff to be; I’d have thought you would be pleased. Go to York if you like; you’ve earned a holiday. I’m sure Andrew and I will manage meals adequately in your absence for a day or two if need be.”

Thomas permits himself a glance at Andy, who is maintaining his neutrality admirably, before nodding once at Lady Mary.

“Thank you, Lady Mary. I will ensure that nothing will need my attention urgently, and give you notice should I plan to spend more than a few hours away, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Yes, of course, and I do hope that you will. I hate to think of you being overworked to the point of stuffiness.” She arches an eyebrow at him cryptically. “That’s all, Barrow.”

He bows and steps back. When he and Andy leave the room, Andy gives him a little puzzled look, in response to which Thomas just shrugs. There is some concern at the back of his mind that this development means Lady Mary does not consider him good enough at his job to deem his service necessary, but he does not think she would have put quite so much effort into reassuring him that this was merely an offer of time off if that were the case.

He does not go to York, but he does significantly cut back on his usual work. He goes into Thirsk for an afternoon, wanders the grounds (once alone, once with Master George, who is learning to skip rocks on the lake), reads a book under a tree in the middle of the day, chats more with the rest of the staff than he sometimes has time to do. It feels rather luxurious, truth be told, even without any real travel.

Lady Mary makes a bemused expression when he fails to be absent from dinners, but one afternoon he is passing by the nursery just as Master George is recounting their adventures with stones to her, and she nods approvingly at him, so he assumes the suggestion that he go to York was in fact only a guess at what he might like to do, and not, as he worried, an order.

*

Branson returns a couple of days early, citing some reason Thomas only bothers to remember professionally. Thomas debates with himself for a few hours over whether he ought to return to butlering as usual for Branson’s sake, but Lady Mary puts a stop to his hesitation when she tells him she wants to go for a stroll on the grounds and needs someone to go with her as it might rain. It is well beneath Thomas’s station to serve as an umbrella carrier, but he doesn’t argue, still uncertain as he is what to make of Lady Mary’s unexpected request for him to take some time off. 

He goes to fetch the umbrella, and by the time he returns to the entrance hall Branson, Sybbie, and George have joined Lady Mary there. At Thomas’s appearance, Lady Mary whisks out the front door for all the rest to follow her. It is funny, Thomas thinks, that he has been asked along here at all; the sky is clear as crystal.

An hour later, he finds himself in the thick of an almost-not-strange conversation about the golden age of piracy with two adults with historical understandings that match neither his nor each others’, and two very interested children. There is a confused bit of him leftover from years ago that wants both not to care about this and to feel entitled to it, but on the whole Thomas just finds the entire experience pleasantly, and somewhat mundanely, foreign.

The employer-servant dynamic has become complicated here, he realizes, even beyond the old human complication that is Tom Branson. But then, extended working relationships do often develop unpredictable nuance. Thomas and the Crawley family have been part of each other’s lives for a long time, for better or for worse, and the world has changed a great deal over the years. Perhaps he should not be surprised.

*

However, Thomas _ is _ surprised when, a few years later, George invites him to tea with himself and Mama. George is not quite old enough to do that with full authority yet, but he cleverly extends the invitation with his mother’s cool confidence and his eyes twinkling like his father’s, so Lady Mary makes no comment, only raises her eyebrows at Thomas. He almost doesn’t know what to say, because butlers are certainly not typically invited to tea with members of the families they serve, even in the most modern of houses.

But he accepts. Of course he accepts. He’s never been one for stuffiness, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm less sure about this one than some of the others, but I do really like the potential of Mary and Thomas's dynamic, so I had to give it a try. Anyway, I hope it's at least somewhat fun to read!


	7. Elsie Hughes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for suicide attempt references in this one.

The first footman at Downton Abbey is an absolute  _ twat _ . Thomas can see that as a junior footman working under him, and some of the others can too. Not nearly enough of them, in Thomas’s opinion, but enough that it likely wouldn’t be a sad occasion if he were to leave.

Christopher is tall but no taller than Thomas, handsome-ish, well-mannered if a bit loose-postured, and even more pompous than the butler. Christopher had been first footman for eight years when Thomas started, and he cannot go a minute without some comment about how fond of him Lady Grantham is. How he accompanies her to town, how she always says nice little things to him on her way in or out of doors, how well they get along when he goes with her to the station to meet guests…it's  _ insufferable _ . It is his job as first footman to go with the ladies of the house when they have no other companion, of course, but he is so smug about his rapport with her ladyship that Thomas would hardly be surprised if Christopher started declaring that he and she were best mates. Not that someone so full of hot air would condescend to use the term “mates.”

Thomas realized within a month of starting at Downton that Christopher is not very good at his job, which is more damning to Mr Carson than his over-inflated, if benign, sense of self-importance. Christopher was supposed to train Thomas, as the newest addition to the group of footmen, but Mr Carson stepped in more often than not to make sure Thomas got the right information. Christopher knew what was what, it seemed, but couldn’t be arsed to follow through with it, and often explained in shortcuts in much the same way that he performed his other tasks. Christopher’s laziness put Mr Carson in a bad mood, such that the butler’s every interaction with Thomas was shadowed by some degree of surliness, but he was a good enough teacher, and Thomas was a quick learner, so it could have been worse.

(Carson doesn’t like Thomas’s sharp tongue or his lack of initiative asking for help, independent of his dislike of Christopher. This became clear quickly enough that Thomas has no delusions about Carson’s opinion of him just being spillover from his irritation with the first footman. Still, it's no skin off Thomas’s nose; he'd rather do well in his job and be disliked than do poorly and be liked, so he keeps his head down and his chin up and takes whatever work is given to him with the aim of showing up Christopher whenever possible.)

Thomas has been there a year (and is now a proper footman) when Christopher declares that he plans to leave. Offered a job near Liverpool, he says. Somewhat suspicious, given that the house is smaller and the pay almost certainly worse, but Thomas and Miss O’Brien keep their mouths shut about the former first footman’s choice and no one asks questions. So much for Christopher’s loyalty to Lady Grantham, Thomas scoffs to Miss O’Brien in the courtyard the day the news is announced. She says nothing in response, just smirks before she stubs out her cigarette and says he should be indoors more often until the new hire is made. Thomas puts out his cigarette too and follows her in.

Good thing he does, too, because at the moment Mr Carson is lamenting that Lady Mary needs to go into the village this afternoon and there is no one obvious to go with her; couldn’t Christopher have waited? Thomas reflexively says he can do it, a new spark of ambition lighting in him at the same moment as Mrs Hughes’s eyes land evaluatively on him.

He is a touch young to be first footman, barely twenty years old and so new to the house, but he pulls his shoulders back and lifts his chin and looks Mr Carson straight in the eye while the butler ponders the offer with more deliberation than is quite warranted for the task in and of itself.

“Lady Mary won’t be sorry of the change,” O’Brien comments snidely as if to herself. Mrs Hughes purses her lips at this, but does not disagree when she addresses Mr Carson.

“This might well be a blessing in disguise. Christopher did always put her in a foul mood; perhaps Thomas will have better luck.”

Everyone knows that aloof Lady Mary hates Christopher, in all his bluster and pretended friendship with Lady Grantham. Thomas keeps his mouth set as Mr Carson inspects him, no doubt thinking how different his temperament is from Christopher’s.

“Quite right, Mrs Hughes,” he says, at last. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Thomas nods once as Mr Carson turns away, letting out the breath he did not realize he was holding and wondering if he is making more of this little exchange than he should. His eyes fall to Mrs Hughes, watchful as ever, but with a hint of something like curiosity in her face too.

A day later, after a successful if mundane trip to the village, the new first footman is announced at breakfast. Thomas takes his new place across from O’Brien, who is observing him with a cold sort of pride he hadn’t realized he was craving. He does not see the frown settling on Mrs Hughes’s face as he flushes under O’Brien’s approving gaze.

*

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” Thomas chants into his hand in Mrs Hughes’s office. It started as an apology for breaking down in front of her, but then he was saying it to her because he can’t say it to Jimmy as many times as he wants to because Jimmy hates him now and Mrs Hughes doesn’t seem to yet.

The forgotten teacup and saucer are gently taken from the hand he isn’t all but sobbing into. As if from very far away, he hears Mrs Hughes place the china on the table beside his chair. He brings the now-free hand up to his face with the other. Several seconds pass—perhaps awkwardly; he’s in no position to tell—before he feels a flat palm come to rest gently on his shoulder. He just cries harder in response.

He runs out of sorrys and tears eventually, lulled by the apparent safety of Mrs Hughes’ silent closeness. His breathing is still ragged, but he makes himself peer out from under his rain-wet fringe over the tops of his fingers at her. She looks a bit uncertain, perhaps, but mostly she just looks sad. He wishes he could hide forever, but he drops his hands and tries to pull some of his long-lost dignity back into his posture.

“Have you spoken to James, Mr Barrow?” she asks quietly, when Thomas has more or less settled himself.

“No, I—he weren’t interested,” he explains miserably. “He’s too upset to want to talk to me. He wants me to leave him alone, so that’s what I’m doing. Too little too late, though, and of course he’s right. He’s right, he’s right…he’s right…”

He bites down on his lip to stop himself going off again. Mrs Hughes watches him patiently as he tries to keep his breathing even.

“And I was wrong,” he finishes lamely. She frowns for the first time.

“Well, I can’t say I don’t see where you might have got the wrong impression from him.” She gives his shoulder a little squeeze. There is something complex in how she looks at him that he would study if he were in a better state, but he’s not, so he hangs his head and lets her think whatever it is she’s thinking about him. “I’m surprised at him, if I’m honest; it ought to be clear to anyone with eyes you didn’t mean to upset him… but Thomas…you must know better than to kiss people when they’re sleeping.”

Her voice is kind, but Thomas can hear the unsaid  _ what on earth were you thinking?  _ underlying what she said. And that is fair, but he resents it too, because to him it is still so painfully obvious what he was thinking: he was thinking of Jimmy never once trying to keep away from his tentative touches when he was testing the waters. He was thinking of how comfortably Jimmy spoke with him during and between those touches, of how well they seemed to understand each other, of how much they had in common, of what ‘silly, sloppy stuff’ Jimmy might be saying about him when Thomas wasn’t in the room. He was thinking of how easy it had been before that last unfortunate fumble (years ago now, but how much difference could less than a decade really make?) for Thomas just to brush a cheek and have greedy lips on his and hungry hands on him. He was thinking of romantic fantasies he’d entertained with the help of novels and poetry, or with a past lover with an active imagination, or alone in the midst of his own optimistic, lonely raptures. He was thinking of the short but also too-long years since the last time he had anything like this, and the hope that he might at last have something again—something exhilarating, and companionate, and heated, and playful, and ardent, and true. He was thinking of how peaceful Jimmy looked, how his hands would feel pulling Thomas to him, how warm he would be, how sure and how glad….

But he can’t admit all that to Mrs Hughes, and if he did, he would sound desperate, deluded, and stupid—because he was. So instead he just sniffles, “I know, Mrs Hughes; I…I weren’t thinking.”

Her lips thin a hair, and he hangs his head, embarrassed. Several long moments pass during which he tries to stop crying and pull himself together, and when Mrs Hughes speaks again her voice is softer than he expected.

“It can be a lonely life for any of us in service; I know well enough. There are good things for you yet, if you don’t let the loneliness get the best of you.”

It is absolutely unhelpful advice, Thomas thinks. He’s been sacked; he’s not in service anymore; he’s never going to be in service again—not in Britain, in any case. Whether or not it’s lonely for anyone else is irrelevant to him now. Besides, being alone when there is a normal path to companionship is one thing, and Mrs Hughes can’t know how bleak it is not even to have that glimmer of hope that people like her never have to give up. She has no right to give him advice about this, and especially not now, when his life is already ruined.

The flash of vindictiveness is enough for him to pull himself more thoroughly together. He straightens up and stands, aware suddenly of how his wet clothes cling to him. He wipes at his face, though he knows it’s hopeless; anyone who sees him will know he’s been crying. He keeps his eyes glued stubbornly to the floor, jaw set.

Mrs Hughes stands too, and just as Thomas is about to face the world outside her parlour again, she reaches up to straighten the lapels of his jacket. He looks up in surprise to see her smiling sadly with something complicated behind her eyes. He wants to brush past her, but whatever that complicated something is threatens to make him fall apart again. To his frustration, his lip quivers, and he knows she sees it because her brows knit together.

“There’s our Mr Barrow,” she says quietly. He wants very badly not to be soothed by her fingers on his collar, but he can’t help the way his face relaxes in response. “Our brave, proud Mr Barrow. I’ll keep what you’ve said to myself, but I’ll do what I can. Alright?”

His throat feels tight again so he doesn’t say anything, just nods curtly. She lets her hands rest on his shoulders for a fraction of a second, just looking at him, then steps aside. He exits without a word.

*

This doesn’t seem right.

Where is he supposed to be? Not here. Fairly certainly not here. He’ll try to remember.

It is very  _ cold _ in this room. Somewhere warmer; that’s where he’s supposed to be, surely.

No, that’s not it. It’s supposed to be cold here—or hot?—maybe this is right after all.

It is very, very cold and spinny, though; it’s making him anxious. His heart is beating a mile a minute. Anxious to be late. Dark and dizzy…or maybe it’s just that his eyes are closed.

He’s got a feeling he’s had exactly these thoughts before, and not too long ago either, but beats him to say when or why.

Someone’s talking. They should speak up; he can’t catch a word of it—though, come to think of it, that might be more his fault than theirs: this is the noisiest headache he’s ever had. He tries to say something, but he doesn’t think it works, since he’s not even sure what it is. The person who was talking stops, and there’s a soft hand on his forehead.

“Thomas?” the hand’s owner says. He hears his name clearly enough, but he struggles with what it means that someone is saying it, or who it could be. _Mother or sister, mother or sister?_ He ought to respond, but he hopes whoever it is will forgive him if he doesn’t for now.

A new voice: “go and fetch yourself a cup of tea; you’ve more than earned it. I’ll keep him company until you get back.”

The hand leaves his forehead after a moment and there is some shuffling, a door closing.

He has become very heavy despite his light-headedness. It’s a strange feeling. Not one he likes very much.

A dull throb of disappointment seeps up from the depths of his chest, a bitter darkness that he recognizes without remembering. He’s so tired; he wishes he were still asleep.

Weight next to him, a new hand on his. “Not to worry, Thomas. She’ll be back in no time; I can promise you that. I couldn’t keep your Miss Baxter away if I chased after her with a broom.”

He doesn’t quite follow that; the darkness is weighing down on him too thickly for him to get much meaning out of anything, but he knows at least that it is Mrs Hughes who is here with him. His face twitches and her hand tightens on his in response. The disappointment is everywhere now, the shame so complete that he would hide if he knew how, but he can’t even move, much less run.

“Now, now,” Mrs Hughes murmurs. “This is not the time to make a fuss. Let someone else worry about it for a while.”

Too dizzy…too heavy…too much. There is a glimmer of gratitude in with the darkness, but he doesn’t have time to think about it before he takes her advice and loses his tenuous grasp on consciousness again.

*

Mrs Hughes is the one to start giving him work. Just little things, tasks he can do in bed at first, then more substantial ones that nonetheless do not require much time to complete. Thomas snaps at her once that it is Carson, and not her, who has the authority to tell him what to do. She doesn’t accept his petulance, though, of course, and he ends up doing everything she asks.

(Orders straight from Carson are sparse during this interval in any case. Thomas will wonder later if Mrs Hughes might not have had something to do with that, but in the moment he broods over the assumption that Carson would prefer to ignore that he exists as much as possible.)

Mrs Hughes is the one to start to pass him job listings. He hates this. He hates the feel of the newsprint between his fingers suddenly, and the smell of it. He hates that reading the listings is exactly the same as it was before, a stark reminder that he has not managed actually to change anything about his situation. He hates it that Phyllis frowns like it frightens her to watch the paper pass from Mrs Hughes’ hand to his. He hates that he is not the one to pick up the papers himself, that he must be nudged like a stubborn child.

He sits in her parlour to write his inquiries the first time he can bear to keep hold of the pen for more than a few seconds. She does not invite him, only holds the door and looks at him meaningfully when handing him the adverts. He does not want to accept the not-invitation, but he wants even less to sit in the servants’ hall to do this, so he goes in and sits at her table and drinks her tea and does the best he can. She holds the door again the next day, and the next, and the next, until he picks up the paper himself before she can offer it to him.

After that, he sits next to Phyllis at the long table when everything is mostly quiet, listening to the hum of her sewing machine as he works. He half-heartedly avoids Mrs Hughes, feeling somehow that the Thomas who writes inquiry letters at the table ought to be as separate as possible from the Thomas who hides away in a cupboard, and that speaking with her would link the two too much while the transition from one to the other is still so fragile. She, mercifully, does not make it hard on him, though she does continue to speak to him as normal whenever they do find themselves in a room together.

Mrs Hughes is not Phyllis. She’s not Phyllis, or Anna, or Jimmy, or Daisy, or anyone else. There is care from Mrs Hughes, but there are no platitudes from her, no easy comforts. She is honest, and she knows that the work must  _ be done _ for the work to get done. She is not always right, but she steps up for the difficult task of putting people right when others can’t.

It is not easy to live up to what Mrs Hughes wants, but then, Mrs Hughes would not be an easy person to be. Once Thomas realizes this, he can’t believe how many years he took everything she does—everything she is to them all—for granted. It is just a pity that he did not see it before he has to leave Downton. 

*

It isn’t like Mrs Hughes to stay late, but she has been doing that a lot lately. She has to wake up early enough; it seems ill-advised for someone as responsible as she to keep herself awake later than necessary for no reason. It isn’t as if she has anything especially urgent to do, or as if she is especially eager to stay. At first, Thomas wondered if she was staying to ensure that he was doing his new job according to standards, or perhaps even spying on him for Mr Carson. He banished those suspicions from his mind quickly; he wouldn’t put it past Carson to request such a thing from her, but he doesn’t honestly believe that she would agree to indulge him.

Thomas sits at the table as people gradually filter out of the servants’ hall, watching Mrs Hughes working her thumbnail over for the twentieth time. Maybe there is some trouble at home, and she is avoiding Carson? There have been no hints of it, but then, there wouldn’t be, would there? But then why would she keep away from her cozy home life like this? Doesn’t Carson wonder why she’s not back yet?

“You can go home if you’d like, Mrs Hughes,” Thomas says, quietly enough that no one else will overhear. “We’re all settled until morning; it’s just the kitchen that needs tidying, and they’re nearly finished.”

She smiles at him, and nods. “Thanks, Mr Barrow. I should go, I suppose. I quite lost track of the time!”

She pushes her chair back reluctantly but doesn’t get up yet. It was the night after Carson’s last day that Mrs Hughes started leaving late, Thomas remembers. That was why he suspected at first that this might have something to do with keeping an eye on him. It is not every night, but two or three times a week for a month now she drags her feet on her way out, keeping careful note of all the staff’s whereabouts until almost no one is left. Thomas doesn’t know what to make of it. 

She gives him another cursory smile before sighing in the direction of the door.

He stands up suddenly.

“Can I walk you home, Mrs Hughes?” 

She looks startled for a second, but then the melancholy evaporates from her face. “Oh, I don’t want to be a bother, Mr Barrow. I’ll be on my way soon enough.”

He waves her concern away. “It’s no trouble; I could do with some fresh air.”

It is nonsense; they are in early February and ‘fresh’ is a laughably charitable way to describe the air, but after a moment’s hesitation Mrs Hughes follows him to her feet, nodding.

“Well, alright, if you’re sure you don’t mind. I’d not begrudge you the company; I’ll admit that I don’t look forward to lonely strolling like some people do.”

He helps her with her coat before offering her his arm, which she takes with a little squeeze. Thomas has never spent much time alone just chatting with Mrs Hughes, but he finds it comes naturally to them both, and before long they’ve arrived at her cottage door.

“You’d best be careful, Mr Barrow; if you keep this up I’ll be inviting you to dinner before long,” she teases, looking up at him the way she always does when she is joking. Thomas grimaces and she laughs, her cheeks pink from the chilled wind.

The next evening, he offers to walk Mrs Hughes home earlier, before quite so many people have gone up to bed, and the evening after that the same. She makes it just fine in the morning by herself, she says; the morning feels different from the night to her. Coming up to them alone is one thing, going away from them at the end of the day alone is quite another. So in the evening their walks become habit, a half hour away from the evening bustle for Thomas to look forward to every day. He does not mind walking alone like she does.

It is a month before she follows up on her threat to ask him to dinner. He tries to tell her no, he doesn’t want to shirk his duties (never mind that Mrs Hughes has taken that into account when choosing the date and time for her invitation), and he doesn’t want to cause her any trouble. He doesn’t need to say that he isn’t sure about dining alone with just her and Mr Carson, but she gives him a look that shows him that she knows what he’s thinking, and that she will not permit him to talk his way out of it. So he huffs, but agrees, and tries not to show his nerves on the way there when the day comes.

It’s really not as bad as he expected.


	8. Andy Parker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some nods to the suicide attempt here, but they are mild. This one features Daisy pretty heavily too, as I am very fond of Daisy.

Absurd as it sounds, it was a miscalculation for Thomas to be kind to Andy.

It still makes sense to Thomas himself that he should have been; he was trying to turn over a new leaf, but everyone already knew him as an unpleasant, untrustworthy snake, so they saw all his efforts as trickery. Of course Thomas kept trying to be friends, or, failing that, just to be helpful—if he could commit himself to independence, ambition, and unkindness, he should be able to commit himself to being a better person—but it would be nice to be able genuinely to start new with someone. Anyone.

Andy was, Thomas had thought, a godsend. Fresh, eager to learn, and with no memory of all of Thomas’s past misdeeds, the young footman took the generosity the under-butler offered him gratefully. Thomas tried his damnedest not to do anything to tarnish his image in Andy’s eyes; seeing how his new protégé trusted and looked up to him made him feel that he had something to hold onto when he wondered if he could ever recover from his fifteen years of bad relations with the rest of the staff. If Andy could like him, surely everyone else could learn at least to be less disdainful of him.

What Thomas had not considered, though, was that the last time he was so unambiguously helpful to one of the footmen, he had had some motives that were not strictly those of a platonic mentor. He hadn’t felt himself to be predatory toward Jimmy, but that was how most everyone else had interpreted it.

Now, with Andy, Thomas does not have any of that underlying, but his behavior must look the same to the rest of the staff, because they all started sending him disapproving glances every time he spoke to Andy, and then, eventually, Andy started seeming uncomfortable whenever Thomas came anywhere near him. At last, Thomas had no choice but to conclude that Andy had been informed that Mr Barrow is not to be trusted around young men and that Andy would do better to avoid him.

Thomas kept trying, figuring the only way through was not to let himself be bitter, but that was a miscalculation too, evidently. Everyone just thought he couldn’t take a hint. And now, even when Andy accepts his help with something, and Thomas keeps his secret perfectly, the commitment to confidentiality brings suspicion down on them both. It’s hard not to think Andy would have been better off if Thomas had just ignored him from the start.

Hard not to think that, because it’s true. Thomas is a blight on the house, a nuisance even at his best. Everyone just wishes he would go, as quickly and as quietly as possible, to spare them having to bother with him any longer.

He’s trying. He is, every day. But he’s finding, now that it’s come to it, he can’t even do that properly.

He flips the page of the newspaper and tries not to glance at Andy, who is going to make a good farmer one day if he keeps his mind to it. Thomas hopes he won’t blame himself; it’s not his fault. There’s a flash of guilt, but the feeling is fleeting, and he lowers his head over the paper again, resigned in the knowledge that in a few hours none of this will matter to him anymore anyway.

*

“Afternoon, Mr Barrow!”

Andy is chipper as anything when he comes to visit Thomas, which happens surprisingly often. He’s knocking at the door three or four times a day since earlier in the week, when Thomas regained the ability to engage in conversation for more than a minute or two at a time. The Crawleys must be relaxing their standards for the footman’s service temporarily to give him the chance to check in.

That would be a heartwarming notion if Thomas could manage not to cringe quite so badly every time he thinks about it.

He’s happy to see Andy, though. His enthusiasm  _ seems _ genuine, even if Thomas cannot imagine why it would be. But discounting that, his presence gives Phyllis an opportunity to leave the room to do such trivial things as talking to people besides Thomas, so he isn’t complaining. 

“Hello Andy,” he welcomes. 

Andy comes into the room to put a cup of tea into Thomas’s hand and nod warmly at Phyllis, who slips out of the room with a smile. 

“Anything interesting happen since this morning?” Thomas inquires, as Andy takes an evidently much-needed gulp from his own teacup. 

Andy shakes his head as he hurries to swallow. “Not particularly, but Daisy’s still asking about you. I think she wants to come up to see you. Mrs Patmore keeps telling her no, but since she knows Miss Baxter’s always here…”

Thomas chuckles as Andy trails off. “Tell Mrs Patmore to stop keeping my well-wishers away or we’ll be having words when I’m up to facing her down.” Andy grimaces at the thought of having to argue with Mrs Patmore, and Thomas laughs outright. “Good of Daisy to ask after me, nosy thing…”

“Yeah,” Andy says quickly, ignoring the minor insult to Daisy, then fidgets. “Actually, besides that, I was wondering if I could ask a favour of you, Mr Barrow?”

Thomas’s interest piques; it has been a while since anyone saw fit to ask a favour of him. And for good reason; he hasn’t exactly been up to the challenge of helping anybody lately, and ‘favours’ have never been something he has been known for providing in the first place.

Still, no time like the present, eh? He gestures for Andy to continue. 

“So,” Andy proceeds on cue, “you know that I’ve been going to my lessons at the school, and it’s been going well, but I’m afraid I’ve gotten ahead of myself lately. I was talking to Daisy the other day, and I asked her what her favourite book was, and she lent it to me because I told her I’d read it, but it’s dense, and I’ve only got lessons a few days a week so I’d never get through it all there, even if I could just bring in my own book and tell the schoolmaster, right, we’re reading this now, which I can’t very well do, can I?” Andy pauses to breathe, which he has forgotten to do since starting, and smiles sheepishly. “Essentially, I’m in over my head, Mr Barrow.”

Thomas shakes his head in amusement as Andy tentatively pulls a book out from under his arm. He wonders for a moment how contrived for his benefit this conundrum of Andy’s is, but quickly decides that it seems cobbled together more from bravado and genuine foolishness than from good-intentioned fibs. Andy thumbs awkwardly at the cover of the book as he waits for Thomas’s reaction.

“What book is it?” Thomas says, the softness in his voice at odds with his persisting smirk.

“ _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ ,” Andy returns quickly. 

“Blimey, she couldn’t start you off easy, could she?” Thomas all but snorts. “What kind of favour are you thinking I can do you about that?”

“Well, Mr Barrow, I was wondering if you might consider reading it...with me,” Andy says, running a hand roughly over the back of his head. Thomas notes that he’ll need to ask Andy to fix what the nervous gesture does to his hair before letting him leave the room. “I don’t know if you’ve read it already, or if you like that sort of thing at all, or if you’re up for it, but I like reading to someone better than reading to myself; makes the sentences make more sense to me, and you were very patient with me before. I’m much better now so you won’t have to put nearly so much effort into it. And, I don’t know,” Andy grins up bashfully, hand still at his neck, “might be more interesting for you than sitting here with a newspaper all the time, if nothing else.”

Thomas finds doing anything beyond staring at Andy utterly beyond his capabilities for several seconds. Part of his mind nags at him to stop gawking lest he be misinterpreted yet again, but the better part of him can tell there is no risk of that, especially now, and perhaps not ever again, at least with Andy.

He was just so convinced he’d made an unsalvageable wreck of the idea to help Andy with reading, potential misunderstandings aside. He was sure he wasn’t a good teacher; his help was neither needed nor wanted; Andy didn’t like spending time with him because Thomas is just not a very pleasant person to be around...and so he believed lessons were done when an alternative option appeared. Thomas had  _ every reason _ to believe that their lessons were finished forever.

...And yet, here is Andy with a book in his hands.

Thomas shakes himself free of his astonishment enough to respond as quickly as he can, not wanting Andy to misinterpret his silence as offense. When he does speak, his voice croaks slightly.

“Yeah, I think I could do that.”

Andy beams. “Brilliant! Just to warn you, though: as I’ve said, I’m much better, but I’ll still need a lot of help, so I understand if you decide it’s not worth the bother after—”

“It’ll be fine, Andy,” Thomas cuts him off. “I’m...looking forward to it.”

He finds he isn’t lying. The prospect of sitting here with Andy stop-and-start reading sentences that are almost nonsensical in the first place, likely calling upon him often to summarize the more complex parts, should not be cause for excitement. But Thomas has only faint memories of  _ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland _ , and  _ Andy _ seems excited about it, and, contrary to popular opinion, Thomas does actually  _ like _ to help when his help is genuinely wanted, so he doesn’t bother concealing the way his face dopily mimics Andy’s grin.

“Alright then!” Andy seems heartened by his reaction. “There’s not enough time to start now, but maybe this evening? I can come up straight away after dinner if that’ll be fine for you?”

“I’ll be here,” Thomas says. At a different moment, he might have meant the words bitterly, but there’s an uncomplicated brightness to them this time, like there’s nowhere he’d rather be than this little bedroom he has hardly left in days. 

The tea has mostly cooled once Thomas remembers he’s holding it, and since Andy needs to get back to his duties, Thomas drinks it more quickly than he otherwise might. But Andy doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave, so Thomas keeps the empty cup in his hands for a few minutes until Andy knocks back what’s left of his and gets up to go (and Thomas does in fact remember to tell him to fix his hair on his way out). Andy paws at his hair to flatten it at the back and puts Daisy’s book down on Thomas’s bedside table, leaving it there without comment. 

More than once that afternoon, Thomas feels a smile playing across his mouth when he catches sight of the book out of the corner of his eye.

*

Andy doesn’t leave his side the whole way down to Lady Mary’s wedding or the whole way back. Though his energy starts to flag before they even reach the church, Thomas, fortunately, doesn’t need to ask for much assistance from Andy. Still, it is nice to know that help would be less than an arm’s length away if he did. The assurance that help would be unflinchingly offered at a moment's notice strengthens Thomas’s spirits more than he admits to Phyllis that evening, though, he is sure, she can read it on his face.

*

Thomas polishes off half of his fourth pint in one go and sets down the glass with the knowledge that Mr Carson never used to have more than a glass of wine in front of the staff while  _ he _ was butler a little too much at the front of his mind. He scowls for a split second, remembering that Carson never used to go with them to any of the fairs either, but Andy’s just getting more and more animated in his enthusiasm for the novel Thomas recently lent him as they both get sudsier, and Thomas can’t bring himself to feel he’s doing anything below his dignity in sharing a few drinks with the people who share so much of the rest of his life. The sun is setting and a band is getting ready to play, and he’s won a piece of change knocking down bottles. No reason to spoil a perfectly good evening letting an imaginary Carson scold him.

The band starts up with some cheery—if old—tune. Thomas raises his eyebrows at Phyllis, who is sitting with Molesley a couple of tables over. Andy only acknowledges the music by speaking more loudly, and Thomas laughs into his mug, half following what Andy is saying, half distracted by satisfaction that Andy seems to be enjoying his suggested reading material so much. Too stupid to read _indeed_.

Suddenly, a small person comes barreling out of the field where some dancing has started up, and all but runs into the table at which Thomas and Andy are sitting. Thomas grabs his glass protectively (Andy doesn’t even bother—he’s further in than Thomas) before noting that he in fact knows the excited individual who is currently tugging at his sleeve.

“Come  _ on _ , Thomas, this is the song you danced with me to before!” Daisy squeals at him. “You’ve got to dance with me proper now—you  _ owe _ me!”

Thomas can’t think why he would owe Daisy a dance, but lets himself be dragged out of his chair with an apologetic nod to Andy, who seems unbothered and rather entertained by the unexpected spectacle. She’s probably right that he owes her, and besides, he rather fancies a dance just now.

It’s not the grizzly bear this time, though he does bare his teeth and make claws of his fingers once to make Daisy giggle before they get started properly. His form is sloppy but good enough for the setting; it has been a long day; no one else is stiff-backed anymore, and Daisy seems pleased as punch with his enthusiasm. He wonders if she’s had any drinks today (yes, he guesses happily).

The song is over and Daisy throws her arms around his back hard enough that a few years ago he might have complained, but at the moment he just hugs her back to lift her up for a little spin, then hooks his arm around her shoulders laughing harder than a butler probably should with a kitchen maid.

Andy finds them (admirably sure-footed for the state he’s in) and pushes the full cup he’s carrying into Thomas’s hand. Thomas takes a hearty drink from it before offering it to Daisy, who is momentarily unsure but does ultimately sip from it too. Thomas laughs again; nothing’s funny, he just finds he can’t contain how much he is enjoying himself.

He tries to bow out to let Daisy and Andy dance with each other, satisfied to have given Daisy a good turn, but Daisy won’t let go of his waist and Andy’s half-hanging off his shoulder already, and both of them are babbling about how this isn’t a _waltz_ , Thomas, and they don’t have to all be in pairs, Mr Barrow, and go on, won’t he stay a while longer?

Carson never would have done this, he thinks with his hair in his face and his cheeks aching from smiling, but he does let his friends hold onto him for another dance, and another, and another, before telling them they’ll all regret it if they don’t leave now to get some rest.

So the three of them do set off for home together soon, agreeing that Thomas is right…but only after dancing one more for good measure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this set of friendship snapshots concludes! Working on this has been so much fun. Thank you to everyone who has read, left kudos, and commented; I've enjoyed the company and hearing what you think very much. If for whatever reason you want to find me on tumblr, you can do so at sinaesthete.tumblr.com


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